Gods and Monsters
by BigMamaThornton
Summary: "In the Land of Gods and Monsters, I was an Angel, Livin' in the Garden of Evil…" HR, somewhat AU, I don't own them, I just play with them. All series characters owned by KUDOS, and may/may not make an appearance. Just a little something I wish they had fleshed out a bit more….
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first SPOOKS/MI5 fanfic, so a little background seems in order. I came late to the party for SPOOKS, and am bereft to find that NETFLIX will stop streaming all ten seasons on February 1, 2015. Nevertheless, I have spent countess hours watching the shortened US versions, scouring chat rooms and fanfic sites, and must confess to a rather frightening obsession with Harry Pearce and Ruth Evershed. Thank you BBC for that addiction. While I do not possess an encyclopedic knowledge of the show, I have been fascinated enough to venture back into the realm of writing fanfiction. In this, I hope to explore the darker aspects of Harry's affection for Ruth, that somewhat unrealistic sainthood attributed to her, and pursue the idea that, as stated by Peter Firth himself, Harry takes unfair advantage of Ruth's vulnerability. Personally, I'll admit to feeling entirely screwed with Ruth's death, and resent the idea that the audience can watch, even embrace, Adam and Ros love scenes, while a Ruth and Harry love scene was somehow not in the cards. Furthermore, I remain irritated every time Adam watches Ros via computer, post "death," but Harry is not allowed the same suggestion of devotion after Ruth's exile. Rant over, but, seriously, just please. Shout out to all of you who continue to write because, even with the dismal series ending, they must have done something right in the end, no?**

_"__In the Land of Gods and Monsters,_

_I was an Angel,_

_Livin' in the Garden of Evil..."_

_-_Lana Del Rey, Gods and Monsters

**GODS and MONSTERS**

Chapter One

She loathed these yearly exercises. Refresher training courses that made her feel inadequate in a way that she found difficult to recover from emotionally. That she was a desk spook was irrelevant, and Ruth found the exercises as humiliating as they were yet another moment for her to shine as, somehow, less than, deficient, different, brainy rather than sexy, introverted versus enticing.

Because they are mutually exclusive, of course.

Well, maybe just for her.

One of her professors, early on at Uni, once told her that she was an old soul, a deep roller, one who is so frighteningly perceptive that she was rather intimidating in intelligence. Which, at the time, she understood to mean off-putting, unattractive, even sexless, one lonely soul without the needs of her fellow souls...connection, tenderness, love...complete in her intellectual solitude.

Gazing at her reflection, she evaluates her appearance. The long skirt is...long, and despite it's soft, silky fabric, it effectively removes even the merest hint of her legs or bum, prudishly concealing their shape and form from anyone glancing her way. And her shirt is not the least bit coordinated, a slapdash selection with long, loose sleeves, plain in color, shapeless in form, her one concession to what anyone could loosely categorize as _fashion_, a necklace with an eclectic collection of charms, trinkets, but costume jewelry, nevertheless.

She remembers her mother's attention to her appearance, and as a doctor's wife, Ruth rationalizes that her attention to detail in that regard was rather to be expected, and not entirely a tendency towards self-absorbed superficiality. Maybe no, maybe yes. Either way, her mother had beautiful legs, enhanced by modest knee length pencil skirts and sensible, yet attractive pumps. Her father loved her mother's legs, shapely, decidedly feminine, everything about her screamed femininity, woman. Everything about Ruth screams inhibition, rolling deep, on her own, yearning from a shadowy corner, waiting for someone to notice, for someone to unlock her, the woman underneath the layers, hiding, vulnerable and wanting, so much so she aches, the deep throb of it as familiar as breathing to her over the years.

"You're no Coco Channel, " she sighs and resolves herself to failure, as she has every year since her secondment to the grid two years ago.

Why is it that the DG and Home Offices insist on acting as though every desk spook is just waiting for the opportunity to jump into the field? Is there some unreasonable, unfounded fear that the active female field agents are somehow diminishing in numbers? Or, they've decided, en masse, that the Honey trap is somehow an unsavory reflection of the service's misogynist streak? Truth be told, aside from herself, Ruth has yet to meet a female colleague who doesn't, in some form or fashion, enjoy baiting a honey trap, the ego boost and feeling of sexual control over the male species, and on very rare occasions, female, proving to be highly tantalizing, seductive. Within the annals of past female agents, there are legends still spoken of in hushed tones, with admiration and awe. Never mind that, if she's being honest, she _is_ just waiting to jump into the field, and she, when given the opportunity, on a very limited basis, has proven to perform...adequately. But a legend, Ruth understands, she was never meant to be. At least not a Honey Trapping legend. No, her legendary status is firmly and actively cemented as an analyst, perhaps the best the service has yet seen. If there were another category reserved for Ruth Evershed, it would likely be her legendary failures as a honey trap.

Still, she knows she is not a trained, _experienced_ field agent. She_ knows_ this. She is not in need of the yearly reminders these exercises force on her, leaving her empty, gut punched and nervous. Every time she enters the field, leaves the security of the grid, her desk, her contacts, her _routine_, limited occasions they may be, someone tries to kill her. _Every time. _No exaggeration, there, but simple, proven fact. If Zaf were running a book on how long it takes for "Operations Involving Ruth in the Field Going Tits Up," she wouldn't be surprised. She is, in fact, already painfully aware of the book on how long this year's honey trap with take her to bring to a successful conclusion, and no one is foolish enough to bank on one hour. She's not Jo, beautiful, strong, a doe-eyed deer released amongst the wolves. Or Fiona, an exotic pixie, so sexually confident she currently holds the record for fastest trap completion. And Ros. Ruth is hard pressed to define the collection of characteristics and attributes that makes Ros, well, _Ros_, and perhaps it's simply enough to conclude that Ros is successful because she _is_ Ros, a species unto herself. But these colleagues are all field agents, the top in their shared field. It is doing herself a disservice to compare herself to them.

But she can't ignore Sam, and in the comparison, Ruth is left wanting, diminished, her quiet, shy demeanor all but eclipsed by Sam's effervescence, her robust lust for life, her vim and verve. And her success rate, year after year, rivals some inasmuch as Ruth's continues to astound in it's blatant ineptitude.

_And_, never one to refrain from inflicting the most negative of self-depreciations, Ruth muses on the newest development; Sam is no longer required to participate as an expectation of continued employment by the services. "She's a proven commodity," Juliet announced earlier. "Her talents are multifaceted, and as such, is excused as her success rate indicates practice to be superfluous for this exercise."

"As for you, Ruth, well it seems..."

Juliet droned on, ticking off, in detail, the numerous reasons for which she was not excused, and likely, she hinted, never would be. Ruth had the fleeting vision of Juliet, snuggled on her couch, whiskey in hand, tears running down her face as she laughs at the recordings of her two previous failed attempts, provided no doubt by some eager GCHQ foundling, promised a secondment over to Thames, who has little understanding that Juliet is nothing if not a self-promoting, borderline sociopath in nature and personality. Having thus been successfully manipulated, said foundling has already doomed their chances at the promised secondment. Not trustworthy with anything more than a black market dvd of one analysts' inability to do what any red-blooded woman on Earth is capable of, pull or be pulled from a pub.

She was acutely aware of several pairs of eyes on her, her face flushing in both frustration and humiliation, and couldn't bear the thought that everyone was, at that very moment, devising a means to avoid having to be the one saddled with overseeing her portion of the exercise, knowing all along that it would be Malcolm who would volunteer, because it was always Malcolm who sat through the hours it took until, concluding with a soft whisper in her ear, "That's done now, Ruth." So gentle and quiet, his words washing over her, releasing her from the task, allowing her to escape back to the grid, back into herself, back to solitude and safety, having failed to pull her assigned target.

She supposes that if she doesn't pull this off a third year in a row, that The Powers That Be will instruct Juliet to demand she return not only her spy card, but her woman card, as well. And perhaps that is why Juliet insists that Ruth continue, despite her lack of progress and mastery, as Ruth has long suspected that Juliet would love nothing more than to transfer Ruth back to GCHQ, exile her to Cheltenham, humiliation her weapon, and, Ruth firmly believes, Harry Pearce her trophy.

They had been lovers, torrid and passionate, matched well in ruthlessness, skill, biting wit and fearless courage. Gossip of their past, their numerous couplings despite marriages, their heated and sometimes violent disagreements, both public and private, color her mind every time Ruth is forced to interact with Juliet, causing a knot in her stomach she'd rather not contemplate, and a hopeless, wanting ache for the man she can't stop herself from contemplating.

"I'm going to need your measurements, Ruth. And your shoe size, " Juliet continues, visibly impatient, waiting, expecting Ruth to simply provide this information immediately, regardless of their audience. She can feel her face heating further under scrutiny, though to their credit, all but Juliet appear to be concentrating at the table in front of them. Only Jo quickly captures Ruth's eye, offering a slight smile of encouragement, understanding intuitively how very painful this entire meeting has been for her, before looking down at her notepad in front of her.

"Yes, um, I can get those to you once we've adjourned," Ruth begins but is quickly overruled.

"Now. Please." And the _please_, while presumably an attempt at being polite, is nevertheless, an afterthought. This is a demand, an immediate demand, and Ruth tries valiantly not to whither before her boss' boss, while providing her personal details.

"36-29-34," she breathes, hesitantly, but manages to maintain eye contact, secretly knowing it is a deliberate act on her part to avoid gauging reactions and discomfort emanating from those present around her. She doesn't see, but rather feels Harry adjust in his chair, beginning to drum his fingers on the table before him, whether from boredom, frustration, _interest_ she could not, dare not guess.

"Hourglass, are we Ruth? Who would have known. And shoe size?" Her eyes sharpening, an infinitesimal shift, knowing the thinly veiled insult had struck home, and Ruth is certain that Juliet is deriving a great deal of pleasure from this entire interaction, not simply because she can't seem to control her mouth's need to curl slightly with every cutting comment, but because this all could have been handled without the entire team being present, in Harry's office, just the three of them. And every single person present knows this, there is no doubt on that score.

Though, truth be told, she knows that she would have had just as much difficulty discussing this, being subject to this, with only Harry to observe. In fact, if she's honest, it quite possibly would have been worse. If she wanted Harry to know her measurements, then she would tell him herself, even better, let him know them by experience, his hands feeling their way around her flesh, her curves, the soft and pliable places she hides from everyone, but would, if given the chance, if possessing the courage, reveal to him, for him, to do with what he wishes, to touch, caress, lick...

_Blood hell_...

"I'm sorry, Juliet, what did you-"

"_Shoe_. _Size_. Please, Ruth, make an effort to keep up as we need to move this along at something rather faster than a glacial pace, dear," tilting her head to one side, eyebrow slightly raised, challenging a lesser animal, daring her to take issue.

"Seven and a half." And Ruth uncharacteristically decides to take the bait.

"May I ask why this is necessary? I've not had to...before we just went to the assigned pub and...performed, um, as expected..." the last verbal stumble betraying to all Ruth's vulnerability and exposure. She took comfort in the sideways glance towards her from Ros who, upon catching her eye, nodded in her direction, a discrete offer of support in Ruth choosing to question Juliet's intentions rather than remain mute, curled within herself, waiting impassively for whatever was to come.

"Yes, well, I think we can all agree that some of us performed as expected better than others, eh Ruth? And this exerci-"

"And then some of us would have the good taste not to mention it at all. Guess that's down to breeding...some of us have it." Smiling sweetly, Ros casually crosses her legs, her attention on Juliet, penetrating, and to Ruth's eyes, as deliberately provoking as unnerving. Beside her, Harry begins to strum his fingertips lightly again, and Zaf barely conceals his amusement, placing his hand over his mouth to contain his smile, though the crinkles by his eyes rather give him away.

Ruth would have hugged them all, but chose instead to bestow Ros a cautious smile, delicate and tentative, her eyes full of appreciation, never expecting she would prove willing to stand up for her, a mouse, weak and overly cautious.

And Ros, for her part, regards Ruth with equal caution, knowing that without her quiet guidance, her moral objections, more than a few of them would be lost, regardless of how annoyingly frequent those moral objections come to the fore, oftentimes undermining and distracting those same colleagues from the end game they play in the course of a work day. At cross purposes they may often find themselves, but Ros wasn't about to watch Juliet continue to dissect, with deliberate and painful precision, the psyche of a valued member of her team.

"This exercise, as I was saying, will be conducted within an active operation. In fact, your current active operation. We're thinking, " pausing, placing her index finger on her bottom lip while looking up, searching for the words, the phrase which would best suit, best harm and maim, refusing to take the bait Ros placed before her, "Well, that the lack of motivation is the problem. Specifically, Ruth's problem. And we believe, no, we _know_ that a person of Ruth's superior focus, her attention to detail, her _intellect_," pronouncing the word with as much distaste as one reserves for pedophilia, "Needs motivations beyond a game, beyond fake exercises and routines."

"Ah, the royal we is it?" Speaking in a low voice, and to those attune to it, forecasting Harry's potential, brimming volatility.

"Amazing what those that sit comfortably behind desks, enjoying the security we provide them, can come up with." His focus on Juliet, eyes narrowed, prepared to spar and scar, if needs must. "The mind simply reels with awe, such a finely tuned machine the collective _We_ are. However would the lesser of us manage without your finely tuned minds?"

"Hope that you never have to find out, Harry. Might I remind you that it is at _our_ pleasure that _you_ serve." Her chin at an upward angle, looking down her nose at Harry, his face the very picture of control, calm and collected. Casual in it's mockery of her. _Harry Bloody Pearce. _

"And may I remind you, _Juliet_, that it is at Her Majesty's pleasure, as well. Let us also not forget, while we trip down memory lane, that I am one of a very select few that knows where the bodies are hidden. Even a few of yours."

"That...threat, Harry, is beginning to wear thin," the uncertainty in her eyes belying the smile masking her face. _I still want this man, this bloody fucking man, who made me cry out, who made me wet just by looking at me._

"If you two are done with your...pissing contest,_ it's a draw by the way, _perhaps we could get on with the details, because, and I don't think I'm alone in this, the sooner we get this done, the better," Adam interrupts, placing his hands before him, leaning forward onto the table, reclaiming the high ground for the team at large.

Minutes pass, Ruth fidgets, Harry and Juliet continue to hold each other's stare, cold and unyielding both, but it is Malcolm, staring beyond at nothing in particular, silently praying to himself that he's not about to commit professional suicide, who unexpectedly begins.

"Perhaps, if I may, a deal might be struck? One in which everyone wins, the home office, the team, and...and Ruth," eyes settling on her gently, asking her silently to trust him in this.

Picking up the straw provided by his colleague, Adam encourages Malcolm to elaborate, "Please, what do you have in mind?"

All eyes turn as Malcolm describes his proposition, the details of which are loosely built on by the team, each contributing in turn, interjecting, adding, eliminating, altering to suit, the cohesiveness of the exercise a testament to their loyalty, their professional commitment to the other, even the most fragile of them, each doing their best to both help and protect Ruth from further assault, further humiliation.

Her love for them all, private and rarely expressed wells up in her, expanding her heart, providing the courage she needs, the belief that she can. These people, each as exceptional as they are damaged, are her family, the mirror by which she judges herself, the nest within which she finds comfort. And it occurs to her that perhaps they are all deep rollers, together, lost without.

"Do you think you can work within this, Ruth? Is this...doable to you?" Her eyes bright with the interaction, the hashing of details, Jo, whose eyes are the undoing of most, pleading with Ruth to accept their help, trust them to not let her fail, and fall, a third time, "Yes?" Nodding to emphasize her belief, her absolute confidence that Ruth can pull this off.

How could she say no? How could she possibly give voice to her nagging, yet solidly founded doubts and fears in the face of their collective onslaught of support and confidence? Their faith in her was clear, and in the deepest, darkest recesses of her subconscious, Ruth listened to the voice which whispered, _Do it_. _Do it to prove you can. Do it to feel, if only for a few moments, in control of more than data, information. _Meeting everyone's eager gaze, Ruth nodded in agreement.

She smiles as her eyes finally come to rest on Harry, his supple mouth returning her smile.

Quietly, seductively, the voice whispers,

_Do it. Take what you want. _

**Any interest? Continue, or cut bait and lurk? Give me your thoughts if you've the time and inclination...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Rather than continue to mess with this chapter, I've decided to bite it and post it despite the fact I am not terribly happy with it. Just a bit of filler/set-up, examination of motives and thoughts. Hope you enjoy, but completely understand if you don't. I haven't written any fic in some time, so, full disclosure, I think the fact that I am rusty and out of practice quite evident. Kindly allow me the time to get back into the swing of it, stick with me, and I'll try not to make a complete shit-show of it.**

**GODS and MONSTERS**

Chapter Two

_"__See these eyes so green,_

_I can stare for a 1000 years._

_Colder than the moon, _

_It's been so long."_

_-Georgio Moroder/David Bowie, Cat People (Putting Out the Fire)_

_"_Okay, so this honey trap is going to be a two parter, Ruth; The dinner tonight, where you and Harry will make first contact, and then the gala party two days from now."

"Yes, Malcolm, I understand," Ruth sighs, but refrains from adding _because performing like a trained sex monkey while being watched by the entire grid as a solitary exercise simply wouldn't be sufficient. _

Opening the box in front of him, Malcolm begins to place various items on the table.

"This is your legend, and Harry already has his, so you'll need to find some time with him today to...rehearse."

Looking up, he watches as Ruth listlessly begins to examine the documents, the minutiae that comprises the imaginary life of Sophie Daniels, newly wed spouse of Henry. Picking up the wedding band, she holds it up to the light, momentarily wistful.

"Both your wedding bands contain trackers, by the way. Provided you keep them on, we'll know exactly where you are at all times."

"Humm, yes."

"Ruth, it's going to be fine. Really. Best that you simply lose yourself in your legend," Jo offers, and Ruth rather resents the simplicity with which she offers the suggestion.

Nodding her assent, Malcolm is certain Ruth is in the throws of self doubt, her internal thoughts manifesting, one after another, on her face.

"You know, it's possible Juliet is right, much as I loathe to admit it aloud," he mumbles.

"I'm sorry," her defenses immediately on alert, "Right about what, exactly?"

"Well," glancing at Jo, hoping that she will back him up if needs be, "You _are_ too intelligent for a run of the mill honey trap exercise. There's no real risk in that exercise, so..."

"So...what? I mean, forgive me, Malcolm, but at least with the exercise, no risk also equates to no harm. This...this is an active op, failure goes hand in hand with consequences."

Switching tact, "When you were at Uni, how did you prepare for your workload?"

_What in the bloody hell is he going on about?_

He has to suppress the urge to laugh as his question results in a look on her face best likened to profound confusion at the conversation shift. Even Colin and Jo, if furrowed eyebrows and a wrinkled noses are anything to go by, appear equally confused. All three stare at him, with almost identical quizzical expressions, waiting.

"You know, those assignments which were almost the entirety of your grade?"

As a boy, Malcolm had a dog, Sebastian. He was a small, messy little thing, an amalgam of mixed breeds, a mutt. To him, he was the physical embodiment of a living diary. The best kind of diary, one that could never be broken into, one that would never reveal it's secrets, one that would just listen as Malcolm would pour out his innermost thoughts and boyhood dreams, fears.

He only thinks of it now as he remembers that when speaking to Sebastian, he would sit himself down, wrapping his tail around his front paws, adoring eyes ever watchful and patient, and tilt his furry head to the left. The countenance of Colin, Jo and Ruth, at this moment, is so reminiscent of Sebastian, each head tilted to the left, he can barely contain his amusement.

"Let me guess, you furiously researched, outlined, gathered, but in the end, found yourself completing the projects with only minutes to spare, despite your preparation? Am I right?"

"Yes...yes, but I fail to see what that has to do-"

"It has everything to do with this, Ruth! You, perhaps unconsciously, perhaps not, cannot excel unless there is the very real possibility of failure, failure that results in _consequences._ Don't you see? It's what makes you such a fantastic analyst. You are _literally_ a person perfectly suited to thrive under the gun, as it were. You were made for an exercise of this nature!"

"No," shaking her head, waving a hand in front of her as if to ward off further discussion, "That's completely different, it' s not even-"

"Listen to me, Ruth. The way your mind works is God's own mystery. Honestly, I don't know how you do what you do. My brain doesn't work that way, which is what makes you so wonderfully unique. But I promise you, on my honor, this op, you were made for it. You can't fail. You won't." Gathering all the items before him in to the box with one wide swipe of his arm, Malcolm pushes the box into her hands.

Ruth remains motionless, holding her new identity in her hands, a box full of falsified details, unsure whether to leave, stay, argue, acquiesce?

"What if...I mean, maybe you are right. It's just, what happens if-"

"Mother has a saying, _if what ifs and buts were candy and nuts, oh what a Christmas it would be." _He offers this bit of maternal wisdom as though the reasons for doing so were perfectly self evident which, to Ruth's ear, is rather like treating her as one would a petulant child who refuses to eat her brussel sprouts.

"Okay. As it happens, mine said _Don't shit where you eat. _Your point, please?"

_Ah, there it is; she's got some fight in her yet. He feels only slightly guilty for baiting her, but as they say, one must stoke a fire to get it to burn bright._

"I'm going to use that," responds Colin.

Laughing, Jo responds, "You can't know, Ruth. None of us ever do. But we can prepare. And we can hope. Follow your instincts, they're good whether _you_ know it, or not. You'll be fine. Really."

"And," Colin interjects, "If you're going to have to do it with someone, wouldn't you rather it with Harry?"

_Well, this isn't at all awkward._

_"_What? It's true, right?" Looking at each in turn, Colin, completely unaware of his unintended innuendo, blunders on, "I mean, _come on_, we've all heard the stories, right? He should teach a class, The Mastery and Art of Honey Traps. Though, now that I'm thinking on it, he might excel more in the advanced courses, no sense in wasting his skills on beginners..."

"Smoke," Jo quickly blurts out. "I usually smoke. Helps to wrap your mind around being someone else if you are doing something you don't normally do." Glancing at them each in turn, "So...I smoke. It's a suggestion, is all..." her thought trailing off, a slight shrug to indicate that, at least for moment, thankfully, Jo was done offering trapping tips.

_Smoke. Put on a person suit, and if you're a bit uncomfortable, light up. Take care, you're in the hands of a master. Easy. _

"Good. Great, yeah. That's...that's a good tip. Thanks, Jo. That'll be...um, that'll be helpful." Drawing in a deep breath, Ruth allows it to fill her before releasing it in one long exhale.

_Oh, Ruth..._

He has never in his life known a person so uniquely gifted, yet so insecure as Ruth Evershed, and certainly not with any present or past colleagues. Is she completely unaware of Harry's obvious affection for her? Or, alternatively, is it her instinctual understanding of that fact that gives her pause? Malcolm harbors no doubt that Harry, for his part, would eat nails before allowing any harm to come to her, though, he concedes, it is quite possible Ruth is completely unaware of that fact. Malcolm has been a spy for nearly as long as Harry, and it has not escaped his attention that they both, Harry and Ruth, watch each other, stollen glances, both first to arrive, last to leave, a delicate dance which becomes harder to conceal as time passes.

That Ruth is not Harry's well documented "type," is incidental as it is clear to him she has, however inadvertently, captured his attention, resulting in what could only be described as curiously uncharacteristic behavior. At least, he mentally amends, behavior not in evidence in some fifteen years.

The catalyst, without a doubt, was John Fortescue. The John Fortescue Incident, as he refers to it in memory, was, in a word, telling. There had been moments before that. Of course there had been, and anyone paying attention could have predicted the coming escalation. But it was Ruth's actions surrounding Fortescue that brought light to the shadows, exposure to what was previously a hidden secret between the two, a play performed within a play, the nuances as subtle as they were potentially insidious. It was alarming, in truth, the direction Harry chose to pursue. His decision to use Sam, her friend for all appearances, as a mole, a go between, betraying Ruth with every detail of information she offered, pushing her to go further, move faster, discard her tendency to hesitate, expose herself. It was his personal level of distaste that spurred Malcolm into becoming actively involved when Sam approached him.

His disappointment in Harry was so profound that his decision to accompany her, _can Giles come out and play,_ became, in effort and intent, his meager attempt to shield Ruth, and in shielding her, an attempt to assist her in reaching the goal she so desperately yearned for, to love and be loved by another. Connection. He understood, sometimes better than most, the need for connection, that tether that keeps you tied to something beyond yourself, that life line that helps you evolve from oneself as a single, perhaps lonely entity into a greater whole, which, in turn, became part of an even larger whole. He saw the yearning, he felt it, he understood it. He had Mother, but Ruth, to his limited knowledge, had no one, estranged from her mother, her father deceased, no tether, no life line, easy pickings, really.

That the other in question was an unwitting pawn within a game of legends and lies...well, one finds ways to rationalize, and his was to conclude that Ruth losing love with Fortescue, but finding it with Harry was about the worst outcome he could possibly imagine. Harry was, _is_, dangerous. His escapades, both sexual and professional, were legend, the services in the UK and abroad littered with women seduced and discarded. a maverick of the first order. He felt it his gentlemanly duty to provide cover if only to prevent the inevitable destruction were Harry to pursue, and claim, Ruth. The idea that she should become yet another conquest, an empty thrill fuck for Harry Bloody Pearce was inexplicably unacceptable to him. Better to see her with this Fortescue, this likewise lonely man, who by all accounts, would, _could_ provide her a stable and happy relationship. Well, inasmuch as one in the services can hope for from a relationship based on vetting clearances for civilians. That is, of course, assuming said person of interest wouldn't turn tail and run once it was revealed it had all been an elaborate lie, that who they thought they knew was a completely believable, and well acted, fabrication. Harry Pearce, as far as Malcolm was concerned, could trot out one of his many legends and go pull from any number of places throughout London, but he'd be damned if he was going to allow him to pursue Ruth unimpeded.

But that was, as they say, then. And this is now. New situations demand new perspectives, a fact Malcolm was most painfully aware.

Now, after having compiled the backstories, fabricating their legends, Malcolm resigns himself to the fact that, quite beyond his albeit limited control, forces have conspired to join the two of them together. Man plans, and the Gods laugh. It was always thus.

"You'll feel better once you've sat with Harry," he offers. "We've provided a rough outline, but the two of you will fill in the details. Once done, Ruth, you'll get your footing. For what it's worth, I agree with Colin; Harry really is the best person for you to do this with. Remember, you may not have a great deal of experience in the field, but Harry's thirty plus years will put you in good stead. Don't forget, we'll be right there with you, should you have the need...for anything."

Her eyes are downcast, but she nevertheless nods, and he spies a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

"Thank you, Malcolm. Thank you for your help. And Jo. Colin. Thank you."

"Ruth?" She turns her head to find Adam peering in from around the doorframe, his boyish smile infectious, and so reminiscent of Wes she can't help but smile brightly in return.

"Real quick, sorry to interrupt. Harry's just returning, and I think it best you two begin work on fleshing out your legends, yeah? You've dinner shortly, and your clothes have just arrived, so hand off what you need to Sam. Thanks."

And he was gone, disappearing as quickly as he appeared.

_Well, that's that then._

"I guess I better..." She sighs, moving her way towards the door, turning at the last moment.

"Malcolm? You'll be on comms, yes? Please say yes, it's just that the last two..."

"Absolutely. Think of me as the welcome voice in your head. Every step of the way, not to fear."

"Me too," Jo adds.

Colin, his attention otherwise occupied, simply offers a thumbs up motion, before returning his attention to his terminal.

"Can never have too many voices in your head, right?"

Feeling slightly better, Ruth makes her way back to her desk, legend box in her arms, and prepares to replace what she knows of herself with what she knows of Sophie Daniels. Catching Zaf's eye, she winks.

"What's the book at, by the way?"

Having the good taste to blush at having been caught out, Zaf, responds in his characteristic cheeky manner.

"Which one? How long to complete, Time table for Tits Up, or odds on method by which, _exactly_, the intended target will attempt to kill you? I'm betting on," ticking them off his fingers, "four days to completion, three hours tits up time, and attempted murder by the clever and creative use of a midget to distract you long enough to inject you with an overdose of insulin."

"Wow," shaking her head, her mouth open in utter amazement, "that is so unbelievably wrong, however do you find the time to do some real work Zaf..."

"The midget's outfit is fantastic, by the way...King Lear, insane, twirling naked comes to mind...what's the..."

"Enough, really, I'm sorry I asked," moving quickly towards Harry's office, box in hand.

"_Fantastically dressed with wild flowers_ is the description you're looking for, if memory serves."

"Don't let me down, Ruth! Fear the Midget!"

"Persons of short stature, if you please, Zaf," her attempt at a frown dissolving into a fit of giggles which can only be achieved through inappropriate, black humor. She adores that Zaf knows this about her, her penchant for off color jokes, knows that while she may outwardly frown and scold, she is nevertheless struggling to contain the full throated laughter just below the surface.

Which is how she finds herself sat in front of Harry, still giggling, a desecration of sorts to the tomblike quiet and solemnity of his office, preparing to become Sophie and Henry Daniels.

**As an American, I don't pretend to know anything about how the British University system works, so willing suspension would be appreciated. And please excuse my weakness, but back comedies never fail to amuse me.**


	3. Chapter 3

_**Apologies for the delay. First, I want to thank everyone who has reviewed G&M, it is most appreciated. Second, it seems that this little fic is going to be significantly longer than originally anticipated, so I hope you'll stick with it. Third, the "M" rating is correct, just a bit down the road. H/R Smut is in your future, I promise. Finally, it freaks me a bit to see that people as far as Finland (WHAT?) are reading some little thing I wrote. Humbled and many, many thanks to all. This chapter is very stream of consciousness, Harry POV, and I hope that you enjoy.**_

"_Feel my blood enraged,_

_It's just the fear of losing you._

_Don't you know my name,_

_You've been so long._

_And I've been putting out the fire,_

_With gasoline."_

_-Georgio Moroder/David Bowie,Cat People (Putting Out the Fire)_

Embracing the comfort and solitude of his chauffeured return to Thames House, he leans back, resting his head as he absently watches the city he loves, would give his life to protect, pass by in a kaleidoscopic blur of stops and starts. London's multitudes, complacent, enjoying the warm turn in weather, tourists micromanaging any opportunity to relax and enjoy completely from their holiday with their maps, itineraries, and cameras, children running, jumping, explosive forces so full of energy he tires watching them. Unaware of his scrutiny, observing them unobserved, hidden behind tinted glass, equally, as one mass of humanity, unaware he ensures their safety, it's existence presumed, taken for granted, without knowing the cost of such, without understanding the sacrifice made by others to guarantee purchase. Blissful, untroubled by the truths found in his nightmares, of the dangers they face everyday, systematically completing, and possibly resenting, the mundane and tedious tasks which compile their individual lives.

He understands that each is more important than him, in the grand scheme, collectively becoming the body for which so many in the services have paid in blood, in death, willingly volunteering to fall on the sword to spare another's sacrifice. The multitudes will not mourn for those sacrificial souls, and no one will ever look to the shadows for safety and security, which is where you will find them, that streak caught, yet unidentifiable, in the corner of your eye. No casual conversations between Mr. Shadow and Mr. Civilian, _"I prevented a thermobarric bomb from taking out half of London today. And you?" _ No, that he is expendable, a sacrifice to the greater whole is not lost on him. Ironic, really, that so many unwittingly depend on him, yet would gladly discard him, a stranger, without consciously knowing they were doing so, an unconscious act of self preservation, survival of the fittest. He is one against many, they are, as a unit, few against hundreds. It was always thus, and there are no awards waiting at the end of the road, only a wall erected in the bowels of Thames House, standing sentry, scarred with the names of those who have made the ultimate sacrifice, a testament to the dangers flourishing in the shadows, the reality of life in the terror age. Their end game is simple, stark in it's inherent absolute, black and white nature, death or retirement, pick a name or pick a pasture, that is all.

He is, loathe to admit, facing what he has come to think of as the twilight of his career. That period in time that is not exact, neither entirely light, nor wholly dark, but lush with colors, preternaturally vivid, fecund and glowing with indecision, questions forming faster than one can hope to find solutions, waiting, obscured yet thriving, for choices to be made. It is a foolish man who ignores that moment when come face to face, when who he has been informs who he shall yet be, neither light nor dark, but glowing with possibility. He is not, presently, what he would consider a foolish man, but he has been, bold and confident, swaggering, foolish in disregard, careless with those he loved and had been loved by. As a young field agent, he never thought to examine what his future would hold, never contemplated much beyond the immediacy of his moments, rather than the story they told, and would tell. Brash, self confident, bold and so cocksure, his being fueled by youthful hubris, his attentions occupied by immediate situations, questions, operations, risks, goals, dangers. So to, the immediate available woman, laying herself open, legs spread, lush, inviting him to taste. And taste he did, he devoured, with relish, all that was lain before him, wanting more, needing it, an addicted adrenaline junkie from the start. And he, that beautiful, damaged and golden boy with the cherubic face, so effective, so deceiving, chasing something beyond his reach, indefinable and obscure, laying waste to anything that dared get in his way, discarding those he loved with indifference. It is only now, as his youth has bid him a fond farewell, waving from beyond twilight's illuminations, that he sees the foolishness, and muses at the predictability, the eventuality of hindsight. Hadn't he been warned by those older than him then, disregarding in his certainty, in his absolute self absorption? _You will regret,_ they had said, _you will want to turn time back onto itself to change the things you have done, will do, the choices you have made, and have yet to face._ _Beware_, sang proverbial Greek chorus, _the malignancy growing in your heart, beware the toxins you will carry, entangled with your blood, your heart and mind, beware the nightmares that have yet to manifest,_ beware of it all, a silent mantra spoken in the wee hours, the darkness enveloping, and comfort beyond your reach. A self manifesting prophecy, haunting him, those choices, and the absence of those who warned him. Power he possesses in abundance, but he cannot turn back time, erase the aches and strains of his aging body, halt the questions that plague his mind as he finds himself cresting the peak, descending into middle age, his twilight receding in the distance as the days, years march on. Does he take a risk, the chance for companionship, embrace family, hearth and home? Or, does he continue alone, a known and familiar existence, rattling about until death claimed him?

Before her, the answer was simple, really. So much a simplicity that it's eventuality became, in his mind, fated, destined, beyond his ability to alter or adjust, or his wont to do so. Early retirement, if he were fortunate enough to survive. A cottage by the coast, quietly puttering, perhaps consulting from time to time, maybe a visit or two from his children, but always alone.

But for Ruth.

_But for Ruth._

She had exploded into his life, quite beyond his considerable control of such things, and obliterated any vision of a future which did not include her, instantaneously. From their first encounter she had intrigued him, fascinated him. Her exuberance and enthusiasm, her extraordinary sea green eyes alight with a future she had yet to embark on. Wasted, her superior talents only just beginning to evolve, the tip of the iceberg, toiling away, initially another nameless cog within the machine of Cheltenham, she had distinguished herself immediately at GCHQ. From the start, he knew, _of course he knew_, she was a plant, a mole, but he found himself enthralled with her, their interview taking longer than necessary, his hesitation to conclude obvious, he silently feared, wanting to hear what she would say next, enthralled with her undeniable nervousness and strength simultaneously. That he was conducting the interview, rather than Tom, began to appear, in his mind, fortuitous in casual examination. Then, as the interview continued, fated, destined as he began to find her in his thoughts more frequently than could be thought of as appropriate. His mind wandering through questions of a more personal nature he had, thankfully, managed to avoid giving voice to, he had contented himself to wonder about her favorite tea, movie, book, those inquiries best associated with a first date, rather than an interview concerning her proposed secondment, feeling her voice, the tone and cadence washing over him, soothing something otherwise riotous inside of him. Observing her, concluding she was a tactile creature, touching the documents, running her fingers across the words as if gleaning something invisible but to her fingertips. Pausing in increments, taking her time answering questions posed to her, a thinker, a deep roller this one, this would be spy he failed in every attempt to avoid being charmed by. He watched, his face masking the inappropriate turn his thoughts had taken, and enjoyed the feelings he had thought deadened in him resurface, wanting to know the touch of her fingertips, the process by which her mind worked, her thoughts and desires, the list of topics which made her blush, her warmth and generosity on display, effortless in expression.

Despite his misgivings, his certain knowledge of her eventual treachery, he had chosen her, above all others, for secondment. The depth of his distraction became obvious her first day, as his uncharacteristic failure to inform Tom of her arrival, bursting through the door in a manner prophetic, he lost all train of thought, a rare and surprising exposure on his part, that first instance of his infatuation, revealed, subtle and insidious, and, alarmingly, not lost on those observing their curious exchange.

She became, in short order, indispensable, vaulting almost from the start to legendary status, quietly filling an absence no one had even known existed. Perfectly suited in temperament, intellect and strength, she became the much envied asset of their sister services, and it was a poorly contained, well known secret that each department, in turns both obvious and covert, had attempted to poach her, as was her refusal to entertain them. That she occupied his thoughts more often than not remained a private secret, and became, for him, an exquisite form of torture. Her subsequent treachery revealed, his relief was almost palpable as is the case with events one expects finally come to pass, he had allowed Tom to interrogate her, attempting, by his deliberate absence, to remain uninvolved. Ironic, then, that he found himself incapable of entertaining the idea of her dismissal, and thus set about ensuring that despite Tom's furious and justifiable objections, he would ensure Ruth was granted a rare opportunity to redeem herself, a second chance. He remembers that he could not contain the smile when Tom revealed her confession of finding her double agent status exciting, confirming for him the very thing he had suspected of her from the outset, that she was, first, a spook by pure instinct, and an intellectual second. She, he knew given time, would become addicted to the excitement, the adrenaline, the full throttle rush so different from desk duties, yearning, he saw, for the challenge.

She moved something in him, some unidentifiable mass long since hibernating, the sleeper inside, and he simply could not discard her as he had so many others, discount her, dismiss her as a momentary fancy once conquered, dispensable, a distant memory of lips and body joining the others present in the vague corners of his memory. She was electric, her every movement captivating to him, every success celebrated in his heart, privately, one more step to becoming what he knew her to be, her every thought enchanting, her future, brilliant. Oh, he was quite lost in short order, gazing at her from his office, her place next to him during meetings becoming an unspoken, yet understood, rule. _Bugger the Home Office_ she had blurted, mischievous, her eyes on him, and he very nearly stopped breathing. _Oh, if only,_ indeed. Bugger knocking as well, apparently, her charming habit of bursting through doors becoming her signature, and another distinction, something muttered about, fuel for gossip, that he did not roar his frustration directly at her as he was known to do, frequently, with anyone, _hell_, everyone else. No, she was special from the start, and he, captured from the get, snared without lifting a finger to stop it, a pacing and caged animal eyeing his intended prey.

_At what point did I begin to want her physically? At what point did he begin his days with thoughts of her, end his days yearning, physically longing for her touch, her comfort, her entire submission to him? _Closing his eyes, his frustration at the frequency with which he meditates on these very questions, the inevitability of arrival, the inability to discern and yet the overriding need usurping all other concerns, both state and security, primary in his focus, absolute in his concentration. The multitudes beyond his tinted window would, no doubt, quake in fear if informed how very profoundly she compromises him, the man entrusted with their safety, likely agreeing with Tom, however unaware, that she, in body and mind, should have been exiled back to the monotonous corridors of GCHQ, and in her absence, restore the order her very presence puts into jeopardy. Sighing, his mind demanding the ritual, the rite that has become the cornerstone of his days, he, again, tries to pinpoint the exact moment when his customary care and concern for his agents, both field and desk, began to evolve into something more instinctual, sexual,_ hell_, borderline obsessive with regard to Ruth.

Ruth, the physical embodiment of years spent wanting, searching, needing, Ruth, his drug, his medicine, his curse, his downfall, his salvation, his twilight.

His...Ruth.

He hadn't been looking forward to the exercise, knowing that it would either draw his team together, or destroy them completely. The suggestion that Tom needed to be tested was, in his estimation, ridiculous, but when the Lord High Executioner commands, he is not to be ignored. He had, as was his right, his duty he told himself, exiled Ruth to the periphery, on the outside of meetings, giving voice to suspicions she was a mole, sent to report back their activities, sent to observe the maverick in his native habitat. She had, of course, surmised she had made some error of calculation, a mistake not yet revealed for which she was being punished, her confusion writ on her face, her frustration at being left out, set aside, tangible. She had, despite her exile, uncovered vital intelligence, refusing to be sidelined, redoubling her efforts to prove herself invaluable to the whole, even in her noted absence. Her treachery, once revealed, a relief for them both if he was forced to guess, she began to establish herself a necessity to Thames, as though it's very foundations were tied to her physically, bone to bricks, her skills enhanced, and tested by fire, expanding exponentially. It was EERE which established her, this shy and scurrying book worm, as a surprisingly formidable force. Believing they were faced with the great and rumored Apocalypse, the end of everything known to them with a capital "A," she had, much to his, and everyone's surprise, become the rock on which the exercise rested on. Standing strong as each intelligence blow was delivered, one by one, each worse than before, remaining calm and focused as those around her, one by one, began to nip and bite, accuse and curse, his worst imaginings realized. He became, as directed from on high, an absent observer almost immediately, a consummate actor, a Mr. Shadow, play acting infection.

She had discovered him, the imaginary tether with which they were seemingly joined, pulling at her, requiring her attention. Watching her face, a mixture of pain and fear, compassion and care, as she realized his condition, circumstances uncontemplated and unforeseen. She had hesitantly stepped towards him, reaching her hand out to touch him, make contact, and the hurt so raw and visible when he jerked away, abruptly commanding that she back away, that he didn't want to infect her, was as hard to bear as was illuminating. He had wanted her to reach out, and she had, and were it not for his mandated state of imaginary infection, he would have allowed it, and so much more, if he's honest. As it had been, he very nearly did allow her to touch him, his innate, almost primal inability to avoid damaging, sometimes irrevocably, those around him forcing his hand, himself a willing pawn. That he would infect her became, turning the irony over in his mind, an unnervingly accurate prophecy, both a reflection of his burgeoning urge to possess her whole, and one with which he was all too familiar. Once touched, those that dare the connection to him, regret, the corollary consequence of having made contact, of allowing their minds to open to him, their hearts to welcome him inside, and in too many cases to count, their legs to part, inviting him to plunge, eyes half lidded, needing to be seen and loved. And he, Mr. Toxin, happy to oblige, infected, waiting to use, discard, manipulate, lie, watching as you feel your soul die, telling you, casually, it was necessary.

Tom deliberated, deciding for the greater good, measuring risk against reward, resolved, in demanding both her silence, and his solitude. In those brief moments, as she left his office, left him to his quarantine, as Tom forbade her from comforting him, touching him, before she could act on it, as she hesitated, accurately reading her intentions in her countenance, he experienced a pain he had not expected, unprepared for the deep, thrumming hum resonating through him. It had hurt him deeply, deeper than he wanted to acknowledge then, that he had caused her pain, caused her worry. And the loss of that comfort intended, yet not given, lives with him today, even now, years later, keen in the comfort of his car. He told himself that it was simply an exercise, one of many, nothing but an imaginary instructive scenario, _for their own good_, designed to enhance their skills, internal justifications which did little to diminish his concern for her, watching as the denouement was revealed, the fabrications identified. His stockpile of rationalizations offered were hollow words and empty comforts, their relied upon efficacy diminished as each face reflected betrayal and distrust, his cross to bear, his grave to dig.

They had, as a team, come through unscathed, relatively, and after two proffered bottles of celebratory champagne, and the following obligatory liquid lunch at The George, hurt feelings had been resolved, and the team proper quickly restored to it's previously formidable unit. He had resolved to speak to her alone, away from the grid, separate from their colleagues as the opportunity availed itself, and as they left for The George, she had turned to smile at him. It was later, however, after everyone gathered, as she deliberately avoided him, moving from person to person, casual in her disregard of him, enjoying that rare respite from standing the wall, that it occurred to him she had, perhaps, expected to find someone else sharing a pod with her, his presence an unwelcome surprise. The realization both stunned and unnerved him, the idea that her smiles were for another, that he was an unwelcome trespasser in her mind, that she would not, he feared, forgive him his role, his skill at being a spy.

Set apart, nursing his drink, he watched as she ignored him, basking in the thrill of success, of passing the test, and felt the coil of resentment begin to tighten within him, the first seeds of hatred for her planted in his heart, waiting patiently, her imagined judgements couched within, a malignancy ready to be sewn. That she was ignoring him was, to him, a certainty, so absolute in deliberation that entertaining the theory she was simply enjoying the camaraderie of colleagues never occurred to him, an admittedly valid theory dismissed before having the chance to breathe. But, as is the way with malignancies, they require feeding, suffocating their host for noncompliance. How could he have misjudged her so, he wonders now? Or, more correctly, had he, at the time, misjudged the depth of his desire for her to such an extent that, once realized, his only recourse was to hurt her, cause pain, make her feel the uncertainty she drew from the depths of him, the fears, the acknowledgement and solitude of his meager existence. Had he misjudged the lengths he would go to punish her for his feelings, perhaps unreciprocated, her involvement incidental, his need to watch as she fell from the pedestal he constructed, his desire to dismantle her rich and throbbing, an appropriately malignant ending?

Had she concluded him heartless and cruel for his part in deceiving them all? Had she thought he had a choice? That he had the option to abstain, _for Christ's sake?_ Did she know so little about him that she could believe he derived some measure of enjoyment in breaking them down, watching them tear at each other, mumbling like a madman? She did, _of course she did_, and why not? She'd had little experience with him which would suggest otherwise. Worse still, her judgements, however lacking in concrete experience, were more accurate, more intuitively perceptive than he could bring himself to admit, a proverbial bullseye dead center in his psyche. Had he not watched them from a distance? Had he not, down deep in the places you first begin to lie, enjoyed the games, the manipulations, the subterfuge? Had his body, slumbering behind a desk, not reached for the familiar adrenaline, the active field agent awakening, blood pumping, responding, wanting? Had she not seen him, then, recognized him, her conclusions precise, his desire for her ever more keen, electric? And if she had touched him, if she hadn't been prevented, would he have trembled as she willingly risked being infected? Would he have carried on, pretending madness, watching her as she waited for the first signs of her death to manifest themselves, knowing it would not happen? Would he tell her his secret, his role, or would he observe her, anticipating actions which otherwise would not occur, those life and death actions, the reaching out, the physical need for comfort, the touch now allowed, the confessions now offered, in death, the moments allowed to live? In his selfish heart, he couldn't know, unable to answer, incapable of deciding, would he calm her, relieve her fears, or use them, take advantage of their proximity, to find his way into her, delving deep, to grab and capture, to own and manipulate, to make her his, and he hers, life perceived in the midst of death?

The whiskey spurring him forward, his mind reeled, knowing that, in his heart, he would have taken advantage, for when had he been known not to, at any age, or time? He would have let her await the first stirrings of her death, allowed her to believe his was the last face she would see, in their quarantine, in their deadly union, he would have done all of it, and more, and labeled it fair, his selfishness supreme, his ego preening before her, his inherently corrosive nature revealed, her victimization complete and absolute. Victimization. An ugly word for a reprehensible act, and yet more true than false, more possible than not. He was a spy, after all, victimizing those around him as easily as choosing to protect, calling it duty, hiding behind Queen and Country, damaging his way through those weaker than him, more vulnerable than him, those he should protect, rather than destroy, classifications of hunter or hunted ever changing from one day to the next, amorphous.

Malcolm had, he remembers, quietly, as was his way, encouraged him to join the group, leave his meditations and recriminations with the marred surface of the bar, allowing them the opportunity to forgive him, joke with him, reconnect with him. Instead, gripping his tumbler tighter as if he half expected Malcolm would claim it as his own, he had asked if Malcolm had, recently, that day's exercise notwithstanding, noticed anything out of sorts with Tom, knowing he would volunteer his thoughts, knowing Malcolm was as concerned as he, both having witnessed in years past what it looks like when a spy dissolves from the inside out, implodes, the tells of self destruction all too familiar. He will always wonder if Tom could have been saved, or if, alternatively, it was his refusal to deny his conscience any further which became his salvation? One more secret, one more promise of discretion extracted between them done, despite Malcolm's continued insistence, _Harry, they need to know you are still with us, part of us,_ he had elected not to join them in celebration. Instead, returning to the quiet of his office, the grid virtually deserted but for a few, He closed his eyes, leaning his head back, and visualized the boxes of himself in his mind's eye, the parts withheld from the world, exposed, those aspects he had unconsciously begun to associated with Ruth. One by one he examined the contents, one by one he bid goodbye, locking each in turn before moving to the next. He remembers that it felt a bit like suffocating, primal in alarm, a physical absence of a life sustaining necessity. He remembers that it seemed to take years to complete. He remembers that the seed planted earlier was still seductive in his heart, beating, waiting to corrode, waiting to destroy. He remembers he didn't return home until long after everyone else had left.

Tom had unravelled, in spectacular fashion, and was summarily turned out, ostracized, from the rest, a civilian, who, _some say, used to be MI5_. He had asked her to stand by him, support him, despite her initial refusals, loyal to a fault, her insistence that Tom couldn't be, as he suggested, unravelling. That she had an affection for Tom was obvious, familial as a sibling, her loyalties divided between what she knew, and what she suspected. Protect someone she looked on as a brother, or sacrifice him, disregard their history, toss him to the wolves, watch as they tear with teeth and claws, indifferent as the gods. He needed her with him, her considerable skills better able to predict Tom's escalating and erratic behavior, and her ability to empathize, he secretly hoped, able to break him down, draw him back into the fold, barring that, close enough for capture. She had risked infection for him once, he reasoned with himself, and later, on a bench, as he had detailed his suspicions, he'd asked her to risk again, wondering, as she deliberated, staring into the Thames, if the two situations were really so different, each man losing the thread down to a woman's influence, the proverbial there but for the grace of god cautionary tale. He hadn't realized he was holding his breath until she had agreed to stick by him, quietly, sadly pledging herself to him, and thus his chosen course of action. Perhaps, he had dared to hope then, she had forgiven him the EERE exercise, his role therein, his dishonesty, but he did not, for a single moment, believe she would forget his forcing her to choose between them both, he and Tom, demanding her allegiance as though he had a right to it, when in truth of fact, she'd had little option otherwise. The voice in his head, an alarm beginning to toll, had spoken of lies as he manipulated her to his side, as he began to cultivate the seeds of doubt about Tom in her consciousness, so desperate to have her at his side, telling himself it was for the best, after all. Add a shotgun blast to his map of scars, and another name to the evolving list of people he's failed, his reward for being correct, his punishment for failure.

Had Tom turned himself inside out for love, or had love had it's way, twisting him into someone else, destroying the person he was, ruining a life? Cautionary tale it may be, and he, even in this moment, sat idly gazing, could not decide, ruined or redeemed? She was clever, our Ruth. On side, a spook by instinct, she'd adeptly maneuvered to reach him quarantined at hospital. He smirks now, drawing the connection, their relationship, if it could be called such, marked by quarantine, each infected, each fueling the illness of the other, hazardous, dangerous, seductive. Her note, a smuggled bit of trade-craft by a nurse who would become her asset, Oliver Mace holding court, Tom dead, begging his return, demanding he reclaim his territory. When the nurse spoke of his lover's concern, her worry likely not beneficial to her pregnancy, he had held consciously his breath, allowing the statement to wash over him, reverberating. Her legend, his lover, his _pregnant_ lover, it was, in a word, a revelation, that she should choose such a story. Galvanized he nearly vaulted from the room, barely registering signing the forms to obtain his ill-advised release, disregarding the pain that radiated through him with every step towards her.

"She does love him, you know," she had said of Christine Dale, and he was so rankled, so distracted with thoughts of how similar he and Tom's predicament was that he snapped a curt and cold _So what _in reply, his eyes hard and volatile, her's soft and understanding.

"Have you never loved someone so much that you can't help but throw everything you know away, and consider it fortunate, a kindness the universe designed for you, bestowed on you, a sin almost to ignore? Do you truly feel so little compassion for them, for him, at least? I don't believe you are that heartless, Harry, I can't._"_

_And there it was._ He had wanted to scream at her, _of course I'm that heartless_, you silly, naive child, push her away, anger roiling as she again peered effortlessly into his soul, his fears, giving them voice, forcing him to hear wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she pledged to stop, promised to leave him be, distant and safe. He had loved Jane, his children, but in that love, he had pushed them away, pushed them into obscurity, the periphery of his conscience, telling himself it was for their protection, to save them from harm. He knew, revolting as the knowledge was, his deliberate distance had served his needs more than theirs, that they were a hinderance, an obstacle in his career, his advancement through the ranks, his nature better suited to the immediate, the thrust and parry of the field, alive and kicking. He had never loved her enough to throw that away, neither she nor his children. He had never loved anything that much, and at that moment he had wanted to scream all of it into her upturned face, that beautiful face that made him nearly as undone as Tom Quinn. In the dark of night, as he sat in the silence that was his empty house, he understood his hatred, his fury with her was a measure of his affection, twisted and sullied, but indicative of an all but overpowering infatuation. He did understand Tom, in his twilight contemplation of things past, he understood completely the pull of another, the inexplicable connection that once made, would be a slow and painful death in the attempt to sever. He feels it now, the mere thought of her affecting his mood, his heart rate. So it was, he decides, redemption for Tom Quinn, and bless.

She had, to her credit, never brought the subject of Tom up with him again, though she did mourn him for a time. Adam, seconded from Six to assist in resolving the Quinn situation, as it was referred to in the hallowed halls, had seamlessly slid into the space that once looked like Tom Quinn, and she had kept whatever resentments at his arrival to herself, though she was one of a very few. Adam, for his part, had recognized, in much the same way Harry had, Ruth's potential, and had set about exploring her abilities almost immediately. Becoming another surrogate sibling, they worked well together, she and Adam, and he was liberal with his praise at her natural ability in the field, pantomiming her mannerisms for Harry, excitement for both her admirable performance and the chase literally dripping from him. That it would end with them both blown, kidnapped, and hunted by a crossbow wielding racist was, well, certainly unfortunate, but as he thinks of it now, he can't help but chuckle aloud at the freak-show aspect of something so ridiculous occurring in the day to day lives of those for whom they are bound by duty to protect, en masse. He had conducted her debrief, as much to relieve Adam of the duty, as to allow the opportunity to hear, first hand, what her thoughts were, and, consequently, to verify if indeed both he and Adam were right about her potential.

"What were you thinking turning back for Adam, you could have been killed, Ruth?" The question, more for his benefit, out of his mouth before he could filter his meaning.

"You would have preferred he kill Adam?"

"No, of course not, but _you_, my dear, disregarded a direct order..."

"...And saved his life...from a sociopathic, megalomaniacal, racist who wanted to shoot us both through with a crossbow bolt."

He eyes were wide, he remembers, and the mirth she felt, her recognition that it was all so beyond what one imagines a day at work to entail, working at her mouth, twitching, attempting to contain the smile that threatened, the subsequent laughter crinkling both her nose and the corners of her lovely, vibrant eyes.

"Soooo, there's a sentence I never imagined I'd say..."

"What did it feel like, Ruth? Can you tell me? _Just me_. I won't include it. How did you feel when you hit him?" Almost predicting her exact answer, knowing it intuitively before she had even thought to form the words, listening, intent and focused, her answer passing lightly across her lips.

"_Exhilarated_. And I would have been happy to hit him again," smiling at the thought, content in her admission.

But her eyes had shown bright with something else, something field agents have come to recognize in others, vibrant and glassy, the result of having gotten their fix, their target captured, their inability to rein themselves in, antsy, darting, riding adrenaline as one would a wave. And in his contemplation of her, he saw himself, aspects of himself reflected back, finding the similarity, anticipating the comfort, opening those boxes he had spent half an evening closing in deliberate meditation, welcoming her perusal.

_Oh shag, this woman, _he thought.

_She had him by the balls._


	4. Chapter 4

**I've always felt that the connection between Ruth and Harry, particularly when Juliet asks if he was in love with her, came on suddenly, and lacked the necessary foundation on screen. Where did she come up with that idea? So, I've tried to provide those things unsaid and not provided, background foundation, which makes such a question asked a bit more feasible, to me anyway. To that end, I have taken liberties, and hope that my efforts prove a genuinely believable interpretation for y'all to try on. Such is the way of things when two actors decide on a direction which is not what the writers had in mind. This chapter follows directly from the last, and continues in the vein of stream of consciousness, Harry POV. Please enjoy...**

_"__Like a soul without a mind_

_In a body without a heart_

_I'm missing every part..."_

-Massive Attack, Unfinished Sympathy

_"__Why'd ya do it she said, why'd you let her suck your cock?_

_Oh, do me a favor, don't put me in the dark_

_Why'd ya do it, she said, they're mine all your jewels,_

_You just tied me to the mast of the ship of fools"_

_-Marianne Faithfull, Why'd Ya Do It?_

_John Fortescue. _Just the thought of his name sets his teeth on edge. She had begun concentrating on audio surveillance, more so than what was customary, enough that he had noticed, which in itself indicative of just how much of his time was occupied by thoughts of her, what she was doing, where was she spending her time. It felt as though he possessed an internal homing beacon solely dedicated to Ruth, and her whereabouts. He smiles to himself, content, the effects of the connection, rather than fading, have enhanced with the passage of time, a soothing consistency in his otherwise unpredictable existence. Even then, rather than unnerving, suffocating, he found his ability to hone in on her comforting, that at any point in the day he knew, intuitively, where she was located, and could, should the urge strike, find her. And he did, more often than not, drawn to her side like a magnet, needing to be near her. For the most part, he observed her covertly, and began to feel nearer to her, closer to her, whilst compiling mental lists of her tendencies, her particular idiosyncratic collection of tells and characteristics, both physical and emotional, all compiling the fascinating creature he had found himself incapable of ignoring. Resigned to appreciating her from the distance their situation demanded, he was nevertheless struck by the thought he had not, nor had Juliet, observed any such distance those many years ago, and as he sits, observing passerby, wishes not for the first time, that he had. Hindsight, he thinks, makes an ass of us all. The cataclysmic fallout from that liaison is something he wears everyday, as one would a hair shirt, uncomfortable, designed to torture the mind, if not just the body.

It's not as though the situation had not arisen before. Spies believing they have fallen in love with an asset, someone they handle, manipulate, monitor. It had happened to him. Twice. That Ruth had fallen into the fantasy so many before her had should not have been surprising. Her introverted and shy nature was ripe for just such a situation, and her daily responsibilities provided an easy, accessible opportunity. Perhaps his much younger self reminded him more of Ruth than he care to admit, though they could not have been more different, more opposite in character make up. Despite his inherent dislike of Americans, crass and boorish buffoons, all, as far as he could tell, Jim Croaver had managed to penetrate his natural animosity, and they had formed a bond between them, one which survived their differing goals throughout their coordinated efforts in Europe. The fact that he was married did little to curb his satisfactions, an array of young and nubile creatures only too willing to buy his proffered legends, only too willing to acquiesce, his cock only too willing to comply. It became a game, and he shakes his head at the foolishness of it all now, the reprehensible nature of it, the shallow depth and meaning, the story it tells of him, who he was, and, truth told, who he could easily be again. Women have never been a problem in the sense of fucking them, and though he may presently be in the midst of middle age, women continue, with regularity, to throw themselves at him, his natural charm and charisma, coupled with his position of power, if they knew, was, apparently, an irresistible combination, one he, on occasion, had been keen to take advantage of. Before Ruth, he admits, chuckling at how deeply she had managed to take hold, her absence at his side during these excursions into empty sexual conquests becoming the very presence that put a halt to them. So prolific sexually, he had little difficulty seducing assets and colleagues alike, and never bothered to pause in reflection, never bothered to ask of himself _why? _Always pushing the envelope, always needing that next high, that next rush, a consummate addict and spy, it became a game of one-upmanship between them, and while it was understood, then, he was the victor, he had simultaneously only begun to lose the war.

It is true that he'd engaged in a volatile and passionate affair with Juliet Shaw, his then boss, his frequent opponent, his enthusiastic lover. What is not well known is, simultaneous, he was carrying on an affair with Elena Gavrick, an asset. It was, in Jim's estimation, a state of convoluted circumstance which vaulted him beyond simple charismatic lucky guy into dedicated lothario, worthy of envy as so many openly coveted his lauded skills. The rumors, whispers spoken even as he passes today, are, for the most part, true, though some are so fantastically embellished upon, he wonders, in his more sardonic moments, if he had missed some opportunity for improvement.

It was his continuing affair with Juliet that destroyed his marriage, though in his heart he knew it was over the moment he waited until _after_ he had married Jane to tell her of his impending career in the security services. And, while he had loved her, cared for her, the guilt he felt for betraying her between every pair of legs that parted for his pleasure never reached that level of soul crushing, knee buckling despondency which would have caused him to stop. That came later, when she took his children from him, when he, as a matter of course, ignored his outright refusal to give up the security life, give up the active ops in Europe, give anything up for the love of something beyond himself. Two children he couldn't have and, it appears, one he won't have, the sum of his skill as a man, discarded women, discarded spouse and children, divorce, but one hell of an agent, legendary, one of the best. And alone. Alone even in another woman's bed, a pull from some nameless pub, empty, hollow...he deserved as much.

Presently, he's come to understand that all Jane had ever wanted of him, besides the obvious dedication to marital vows, was to be _seen _by him, for him to truly know her, separate from himself, separate from their union, an entity unto herself, independent, with all that entails. But he, a motherless child of a drunken father, an adrenaline addict, a masterful Mr. Shadow, too poorly prepared for human interaction, companionship beyond what satisfies in the periphery, failed to know how. An honest failure, but failure just the same, and one he has only recently, with Catherine, made the attempt to address and rectify. They were always, Jane, Catherine and Graham, to him, an extension of himself, indistinguishable from him, and thus, or so he thought, would always be with him. That he had become, in his hubris, his belief that they were an indistinguishable part of one another, a younger, colder, absentee father, a darker mirror image of his own, is his worst failing to date, a gut punch that never wanes, never heals, never weakens. He loves his children, but readily accepts he does not know them, not the faintest flicker of knowledge, and they love him, but no longer _want_ to know him.

Helpless, his life coming full circle, he been allowed, with John Bloody Fortescue, a taste, just the barest hint of what Jane must have felt knowing he was fucking another woman, someone he associated with during his workday, someone he was with as she sat waiting, her imagination becoming her willing enemy, her vows to him her curse. And as he watched as Ruth began to physically yearn, her emotions playing across her face, for something beyond herself, beyond the solitude, he couldn't help but reflect on how similar it must have felt to his children, yearning for him, companionship, wanting to believe, as she must, that they were worthy of such simplicities afforded everyone else they laid their eyes on, yet, without explanation, denied them. He had been curious, initially, thinking that she would tire of the exercise, tire of the sense of wishes unfulfilled, of distance insurmountable, in essence, give up, and to his mind, return to him, devote thoughts of that nature to him. Ridiculous, foolish old man, but it is what he had hoped. He knew, to his shame, the road she was embarking on, the consequences, the pain and emptiness, the idea that one could forge a relationship with someone else while never once revealing themselves from the shadows, never once dropping the mask, that way madness lay. And regret, a lifetime of regret. When Malcolm had mentioned having provided the documents to Ruth I had requested over the weekend, I knew, immediately, that she had lied, her duplicity and skill underestimated by everyone, save Adam and myself, and thus, who wouldn't have believed her? Seething at her audacity, nevertheless, I was torn between pride in her skill, and fury at her escalating attachment to this Fortescue. Rationalizing my feelings of rejection, I embarked on an elaborate game, one which I hoped would both teach her a lesson, and, in my darkest, malignant heart, hurt her. But hurting her, my heart screamed, wasn't enough. I had to break her on the rack of experience, teach her never to underestimate how very deeply I understood what it is that we do, everyday, and thus, reveal how excruciatingly hateful I could be.

So full of spite he had difficulty breathing, he had handled it badly, truth be told. She had accused him of cowardice at the conclusion of her reprimand, and she was right. It could have been simple, succinct, water under the bridge as this situation was by no means equal to the betrayal she committed in reporting activities to secure her secondment. By comparison, it was rather innocent in an endearingly lonely way. Except to him. To him, her attraction to Fortescue was a betrayal of him, and his growing fascination with her. That she was becoming likewise fascinated with another, acting on it, was, well, intolerable to him, and his admittedly irrational response was to spy on the spy, made all the worse for corrupting her colleagues against her.

He could have stopped it early. He could have addressed her breaking protocols, but curiosity got the better of him. In truth, he wanted to know how far she would go, how far would she take it? Would she meet him, date him, sleep with him, honestly fall in love with him? What legend would she use, and for how long, would she submit the Permission to Socialize for his approval? Would she, in fact, follow through, or cut bait and run? Did she, in her naiveté, believe that any relationship embarked on in this way, the foundation a crumbling mass of fabrications and lies, would stand the test of time, let alone the inevitable moment when all was confessed? Did she believe this Fortescue was something she could effectively test drive as one would a car, deciding after a taste if one wished to make a genuine offer? Hadn't Jane screamed much the same to him? Tears streaming down her face when he would come home stinking of another woman's perfume, another woman's sex, Juliet's scent? _Why, Harry, just tell me why? Am I not enough, are we not enough? _How could he tell her that no, they weren't enough, she and the children would never be enough, and in the telling make it real? Worse still, confess that he didn't even know what _enough_ looked like, what it felt like, that he needed so much, needed to breathe, needed to forget the ugliest things ever imagined burned into his memory, that to touch her was to infect her, that she wasn't what he wanted, maybe never wanted because she needed him to be who he was not, could never be, for her, for them? That the parade of women never asked anything beyond his cock, the satisfaction found in the simple, hard thrusts, easier because it was artificial, because it was disingenuous, because he wasn't actually there. _ He could bloody breathe._ How do you tell another the truth of your counterfeit soul, that you are, in essence, , not here, not there, not anywhere, and then ask them, expect them to forgive?

She wanted to breathe, he knew, he understood, palpable as a heartbeat. Ruth wanted to feel, hidden in the shadows, and she wanted to erase what she knew to be true, of herself, of the species...she wanted. He loved her for it, the symmetry, as much as he hated and damned her for the same. He saw himself, he saw his vulnerability, and he wanted her to hurt for not recognizing the same in him, bloody bastard that he was...and is. And is.

So it was with a divided and slightly guilty conscience that he entrusted Sam to monitor Ruth's actions, who, in turn, co-opted Malcolm, each encouraging her to continue while reporting every development, every action, back to him. Sam suspected, he is certain, it was more than simply Harry wanting to make some demonstrably authoritative point with Ruth. On the rooftop, even as he tried to appear casual, proffering an air of _oh you silly, naive girl, Ruth,_ fortified with a rare chuckle, she had, nevertheless, stared at him a bit too long, gauging his reaction to her assertions, and he knew he was beginning to unravel, refusing to either look at her, or dismiss her, lest he completely give himself away. Sam, far more observant than given credit, watching Danny pine for Zoe, waiting, always waiting for him to notice her adoration, professing to be uncomfortable with her role in the game, but the twinkle in her eye giving her away, her excitement at being taken into his confidence, and another weaker subject for him to victimize. Malcolm was another story altogether. His facial expressions never wavered from contemplative indifference, but he knew Malcolm was suspicious of his motives, the lengths he was going to, the simplicity that could be afforded the situation altogether, apparently, not in the offing. He is half convinced that, when push came to shove, Malcolm performed as requested to better keep abreast of what exactly was going on, and his offer to pose as Ruth's brother solidified, for him, the very real possibility that Malcolm would, if necessary, do what was required to protect Ruth from him. Admirable, certainly, but not something for which he was going to thank him, proving yet another obstacle in an already obstacle littered arena. Both Malcolm and Sam had dutifully reported the details regarding the scratch requiem, and to this very day, both remain unaware of the necessity, he had already known all there was to know. He had spooked the spooks, neither Ruth, nor Malcolm, or so he had thought, aware of his presence, hidden, ever watchful, a serpent coiled in the darkness, the uninvited toxin.

The details he remembered were of a sort that foretold heartache inasmuch as the possibility of companionship, his imagination running riot over his common sense. He knew, for example, what she looked like in her dress, lovely, form fitting, understated, altogether enchanting. He knew what she looked like as she lost herself in the music, joining and gradually blooming whilst surrounded by voices, joined in purpose, a single entity of which she was invited to become a part. He knew, from the dark recesses beyond, what she looked like as she gazed at the object of her infatuation. The open adoration, the nervous gestures so familiar to him, the glances afforded to her by Fortescue had filled him with an almost violent jealousy. His resentment flourished, his realization that while he had wanted her to push her structured routine, her self imposed limitations and boundaries, that she had chosen to do exactly that with another, when _he_ had handed her the opportunity, _he_ had allowed her to flex and stretch, to realize her brilliant potential, his agent, his prodigy,...he hated her for it. That he had been the masterful puppeteer, orchestrating from the start, served only to stoke the fires of his rejection, his ever present resentments. He hated her for the weakness she stirred in him, the hopes she generated in him, the affection he felt for her, his reactions and distractions because of her fueling a livid fury, irrational, toxic, building, waiting to hurt, wanting expression despite the consequences, once done, impossible to turn back. He hated, most of all, that he was hidden, compelled to attend, an uninvited usurper incapable of turning away, needing to watch her, needing to hear her, needing...her. His curiosities satisfied by his own design, his bitter pill to choke on. And he hated himself for hating her.

He took a perverse form of pleasure, therefore, in watching them as they walked along the fountain, reading the body language, knowing she was collapsing, understanding that Fortescue was too unsure to push her, and as they parted, he to his solitude, and she to resume hers, Harry truly understood what manipulative, self serving, corrosive son of a bitch he had become, an acknowledgement that, however honest and necessary, left him reeling. And angry, furious with himself, and livid with her that she should stir him in such a way, that she should affect him, that he would want her to continue doing so, turning himself into his own most formidable opponent.

His fury still simmering, unresolved, he conducted himself in an admittedly shameful manner following, and she called him heartless, a coward. That he had wanted, in that reprimand, the very same answers Jane had wanted, from her, was another moment of prophetic symmetry experienced. _Why, Ruth_ he had wanted to ask. Tell me what you want, and I will tell you all the ways I yearn to satisfy, list every moment I have felt the same, every reason you should succumb to me, be with me, breathe with me, always. He is a coward, of course, not least because he waited until she stormed away to quietly admit, albeit to an empty room, that he was not heartless. He had orchestrated this elaborate farce _for her own good, _he told himself, rationalizing every action, decision, manipulation. That she was fast becoming the reason his heart continued to pump, that it was because he cared for her that he remained distant, despite the thought of her with anyone else sending him into paroxysms of frustration and "what if" tortures scenarios, his imagination unleashed to explore every painful detail. Because, he knew, to indulge in anything further would sully her, would taint her, like Jane, and she would regret never being clean again. Unlike Jane, he realized, she had become that thing, that _one thing_ he could, in all his life and experience, sacrifice for, and in the sacrifice, become whole. Did he love her? Did he simply crave the similarities found within her, and, thus, crave himself in the same self absorbed manner which characterized his younger days? Was she common ground, mirrored symmetry, simply another extension of himself, as Jane was, as his children were, or does he see her as a separate, independent entity worthy of affection, devotion, love in her own right? He couldn't answer then, though he knows the answer now, feels it in his bones, his shifting of perspective, seeing with the eyes of age and experience, feeling with the heart of an aged and damaged man.

_Harry, I'm concerned about you, what with Tom and...all that has happened. Do you understand what you are doing, what you are starting. With Ruth _Malcolm had asked, late, after Ruth had left the grid, after he had exposed himself a fraud during the reprimand.

Foolish to have thought he could game his own agents, but regarding Malcolm, more so the fool. Malcolm, who had sat sentinel, a quiet observer to the better portion of his time at Five, who knew, better than anyone currently present his considerable failings, liaisons, encumbered conscience. He had, to his credit, waited until the grid was all but deserted to enter his office, confessing his knowledge that he was at the requiem, demanding, albeit in his signature unassuming Malcolm way, what he thought he was playing at? He had made to rebuke him, a full throated, volatile rebuke, and as Malcolm had simply raised his hand, waving away his denials like so much smoke, he had, uncharacteristically, backed down, simply facing him, waiting for the judgements and recriminations. Instead, much to his surprise, and in his heart, relief, Malcolm had simply sipped the whiskey he had offered him, using the time in preparation to collect his thoughts, manipulative as clockwork, and waited for what he would offer by way of explanation, if at all inclined.

"I'm drawn to her," was the extent of what he offered, and Malcolm only nodded his understanding as though he was validating a fact Malcolm had long since drawn, and had reconciled himself to.

"She is an exceptionally well suited match, it seems," after a moment, looking into his tumbler, "It's been some time for you..."

"Yes..." Moments pass in companionable silence, each of us contemplating the contents of our respective tumblers.

"Don't play her about, Harry. She is not someone...she is, well...she's alone, Harry. She's _alone_, and easy prey for someone with your...skills. See that you don't destroy the very thing you find so captivating about her, is all. I just...If it's just an infatuation, then, please, leave her be."

"And if it's more?"

"Is it?" Delving deep, he was, eyes sharp, keen to notice any falsehood, any artifice, any lie passing the lips of Mr. Shadow.

"I don't know. The thought of her with...if I'm honest, Malcolm, I don't know what I feel. I've never..." Sitting there, nursing the first of many drinks for the evening, he remembers being stunned, literally, that he would engage in the conversation, let alone admit to anything, least which having unresolved inclinations towards a subordinate to yet another subordinate, regardless of their history.

Setting his tumbler on the desk before him, Malcolm rose, comporting himself, and he knew the worst was in the offing, did what he was able to prepare and armor himself.

"Perhaps, before you continue further, you _should_ know. For both your sakes."

With that parting comment, Malcolm left, but not without, however unobtrusively, making sure he knew that he would be watching, for any misstep, anything untoward, and he would, if needs must, chose to protect Ruth.

Malcolm, he had told himself, sitting in the quiet of his office, didn't see her as he did, as Adam did. Fragile, vulnerable, in need of protection, that was the sum total of Malcolm's evaluation. No, she was more than that, and he could have his picture of her, to caress and protect, but he would rather the truth of her, the warrior inside he knew was there, the passionate woman he saw, however fleetingly, surface as she sang, as she allowed herself to express who she was, without thought or inhibition. It would be their secret, he and Malcolm's, one of numerous secrets. Malcolm would not reveal to her that he was there, and he would not reveal to Ruth the extent of Malcolm's duplicity, nor desire to protect her from him. It would seem, he thinks now, falsified foundations have a tendency to metastasize, capturing the otherwise healthy surrounding environment, and corrupting it, killing it in the end.

And the niggling thought, the one that, for a time, came to the fore, demanding recognition as he faced himself in the mirror each morning, had Ruth's breach in protocol been simply the convenient excuse necessary to construct a legitimate, albeit secretive, means by which to follow her? An opportunity, as such, to stop _wondering_ what she was doing, and actually _observe_ her, in the flesh, in a house of God, as she reached for the same satisfactions he likewise yearned for? And every morning, without fail, he told himself that he, not John Bloody Fortescue, had a right to her, that only he would understand the complexities of their lives, the nature of their work, the nature of her. Only him. And thus, the malignancy grew, even as he lied to himself that he, like Malcolm, was only protecting her, saving her from the pain and regret, the inevitability of the path she had briefly walked, but for him, Mr. Shadow, longing, as it became clear, his immunity to the seductions of being _seen_ by another having forsaken him.

Then, the unimaginable.

He knew, had always known, that those in the services were dispensable, an understood expectation of the job, lay your life down for the lives of others, sometimes hundreds of thousands of others. He had put whatever resentments he may have once fostered aside years ago, telling himself that one must choose their battles. Until, that is, Zoe was forced into exile as a sacrifice to public perception. The bitterness that her forced absence saved not one single life lives with him today, as does the loss of one who had become to him, in his own's absence, a surrogate daughter. She was an unnecessary sacrifice, and her absence was felt by all, inasmuch as one can mourn someone living, but for all practical purposes, dead to them, no one more than Danny. Adrift, Danny having lost both Tom and Zoe suddenly, became a sullen shell of who he once was, betrayed, resentful, angry. Yet, Ruth, in her patient way, managed to break through, managed to forge a bond with him fostering a growing friendship which would prove, had anyone had the gift of precognition, life saving. It was Danny that first raised the alarm of her uncharacteristic absence from the grid, his understanding her well enough to know she didn't know how to text, her acumen at intelligence gathering not extending to a mastery of advances in technological gadgetry. He remembers now the numerous times, after Zoe's absence, when Danny would tease Ruth, changing her ringtone to songs he knew would embarrass her, laugh at how she couldn't figure out how to delete her phone messages, leaving it full for days, and he envied the easy way they had with one another, familial in a way he had yet to breach with her. To say he was jealous would be accurate, if not wholly unflattering, indicative of his continued obsession.

It was, in the end, Danny who saved her, from Forestall, a man so gifted, so full of promise, so filled with bitterness that he would have sold the world to salve his wounds. They, he and Ruth, had known one another while both were at GCHQ, and it seemed to him, at the time, Forstall's interest had not waned. Her body language, much to his chagrin, seemed to mirror that interest, and his resentment at having virtually invited another rooster into the yard, no matter how well suited to solve the predicament a pharmaceutical hacker had plummeted all of London into, grew exponentially. Fortescue and Forestall, a refrain in his head, Malcolm's questions, his warnings, all a riotous noise, leaving him ill tempered and unusually curt. She had, it was believed, texted Sam of her sudden illness. Had he been of clearer mind, he would have seen the uncharacteristic nature of her sick out, and as Danny correctly asked of us all to name a time when Ruth had ever called out sick, he knew, in that moment, that he knew less about her than previously believed, that he didn't know her at all. As Danny volunteered the details in his debrief, he remembers thinking that this young man before him knew Ruth in a way he had not dared. Danny knew the person, he only the ideal of what he thought she was, of what he needed her to be, and were it not for Danny, his lack of understanding her could have nearly killed her. While he resented, yet envied Danny this gift, he was also, curiously, grateful, thankful that she was still alive, she was still a possibility, she was, in a word, knowable if he dared risk it. The malignancy in his heart, the seed planted before Tom left them, Adam's arrival, and Zoe's exile, breathed into his consciousness, _but you are on the periphery, and you nearly got her killed. You have yet to answer the question, is she more than an infatuation? Is she your redemption or your undoing? Will you dare to find out? _

Still he could not divine the answers, then, calm his mind as it is calmed now.

Aware of Malcolm's silent scrutiny, or, if he were honest, despite it, and having had a glimpse of Ruth off the grid, he found himself eager to manufacture any opportunity to spend time with her, even covertly, again. The mandated interview for the DG position, a position even _he_ couldn't feign interest in, surrounded by politicos he openly held in distain, requiring he become, if successful, some bastardized Harry Pearce version of ineptitude and self aggrandizement was as fortuitous as crap timing, but afforded the perfect opportunity. Conspiring, his better angels quieted, he saw it as an opportunity to come between them, Danny and Ruth, to reveal himself in bits and pieces in allowing her to help him prepare, wide open in it's potential. Yet still, his lessons of the past seemingly lost to him, so egregiously about _him_, about what _he_ wanted, that he wonders, now, how it was he didn't explode, implode, both, so stuffed full, so preening, so entitled, his face coloring with embarrassment, and he's momentarily thankful he had chosen to raise the privacy screen.

She approached the task, dogged and determined, and he found himself vacillating between wanting to be near her, and longing to hide, so penetrating were her inquiries, so voracious was her appetite for information, her need to know, her thirst for knowledge about him, the man, the sleeper inside. His inability to concentrate, yet unwilling to end the psychological examination, despite his discomfort, he had allowed Adam to determine the course of action, the interrogation of Robert Morgan, mercenary, and, as it later turned out, devoted father. Plausible deniability overlooks a great deal, useful, perhaps even indicative of his political suitability? But for her, but for her demand for answers, _is there a line we do not cross_?

Smiling from a school photo, the daughter of mercenary Robert Morgan, in need of an organ transplant, innocent, her face flushed with joy, her childlike trusting nature literally jumping off the page. "Are there some lines we don't cross," she had asked him, and he knew that it was a crossroads for him. The child had, likewise, pulled at his heart, and the decision made, the answer given would determine where he fell on her scale of ethics and morality. How far does one go in the name of Queen and Country? Do we use a child as a pawn and call that just? Do we, alternatively, admit having as a collective become the mirror image of what we fight against? He knew she felt a kinship with the girl, that she, too, had had too much on her plate as a child, too many adult issues coloring her young life, and understood that in sacrificing the child, Harry would prove, by correlation in her mind, willing to sacrifice Ruth as well. That she very nearly did not inform him of what she had uncovered suggested that she, too, did not want to know the answer, did not want to believe him capable, preferring those hard truths to remain floating in the ether of uncertainty, where hope lives, when one can more easily lie to oneself. The place is familiar to him, it's walls and comforts, the deceiver that wears a smile.

Proving more than capable, measuring sacrifice, deciding as would a god who lives today, and who may die all in the name of greater good, he had failed her, he and Adam both, spectacularly. She would have, he has little doubt, slept soundly were she to have chosen the child, secreting the information back from whence it came, despite the cost, regardless of lives lost. Measuring the sacrifice by perspective, sacrifice a child, or untold numbers, where does one fall, how does one decide? That they had used the child, that it had, in the end broken her father, another successful conclusion measured on an evolving scale of losses, made little difference. He has learned that you can do a thing, you can dress it up, you can rationalize it, you can do all that is necessary to make it palatable, but it does little to change the fact that _you have done it_, past tense, unalterable, willingly and deliberately, one's reasons become incidental no matter the voracity of your convictions.

It was with no small amount of jealously, then, that he watched, an unwilling observer, as she began to move closer to Danny, evermore likeminded, their friendship becoming stronger, their bond something he began to envy. It was Danny who, more appalling to admit, in his ability to understand Ruth better than he, who had become an obstacle, to Harry, obscuring the path to his prize, his right to have her. The guilt at his selfish relief, _relief for bloody sake_, when they were separated by his death, the bond irretrievably broken, was overwhelming, sickening, and very nearly bucked him. Lacking foresight of a nature that told of such things, he only understood the moment, his immediate moment, and thus had yet to face the shame of Danny's death, allowing the jealousy to fester and beat about him, becoming evermore a part of him concerning Ruth. He could confess a thousand sins, beg for a thousand absolutions, and he would never wash himself clean of that self-realization. He was, he knew, in his darkest heart, a ruthless bastard, wanting what he wanted, taking it when not given, manipulating, entitled. It's what made him a good, no, legendary spy.

He had, subsequently, relinquished his right to deniability, for her, and the image he wanted her to have of him, another manipulation of sorts, coloring the facts in his favor, fixing the game. Still, they had used the girl, and by doing so, had broken her father, had saved nameless citizens, but they _had used the girl_, put her in play, tainted her innocence, the sacrifice necessary, he rationalized then, he justifies still. That she would not forget was a certainty, as was his certainty she would, however, forgive him. It was her nature, her ability to empathize, her compassion, the very foundation her entire being was built upon. Her intelligence allowed her to see his position, if not embrace it, and in this, she offered absolution without meaning, forgave because she did not know how to continue otherwise, even as she would be wise not to forget the man, the particular kind of moral ambiguity necessary to make these kinds of unimaginable decisions. In his heart, he knew she would do well to discern how that kind of pressure can warp and soil a man's soul, irrevocably, even as he hoped that she would never, ever examine it too closely, her mind a dangerous trap from which he had no hope to escape clean and fresh.

That he would allow her to question him, argue his choices and decisions, manipulate her way into his head, granting her access to decisions yet made, influencing the outcome was not something he could, with any level of certainty, guarantee continue should Adam replace him, but it was increasingly obvious that it was needed, that one voice asking _is this right, can we justify this, can we still look at ourselves in the mirror? _He had no choice but to throw the interview, he told himself, because he couldn't be sure Adam would be reined in, by anyone. Privately, he knew he threw it in part because he wasn't yet ready to give up the thrill of the grid, despite the decisions, the horrors and tortures that walked his nightmares, but, sadly, pathetically, because he was not yet ready to leave her, to give up the rare moments they shared, the way he could watch her through his office windows, the way she knew how he liked his tea. How she, apparently, noticed that he paced, wondered if he would forget them, that she had been watching him all along, covert and sly, it was, fortifying, and he entirely unworthy. He thought of the day he saw her waiting for the bus not long after the EERE exercise, horribly cold day, rain in sheets, and she waiting, set apart from the others, and he in the comfort of his chauffeured car. Always set apart, yet appearing somehow serene, content, and his heart stuttered a bit, squeezed in recognition their shared solitude, and she so young, he nearly asked Dave to pull over, to offer a ride, to offer comfort, but the car pulled forward, and he lost sight of her, and he thought to himself, another time, maybe. Another time. He couldn't leave, abandon her to the cold and rain again, so he threw the interview.

And, she went on her date.

And, the seed began to pulse, ever stronger.


	5. Chapter 5

_"__My father's love was always strong,_

_My mother's glamour lives on and on,_

_Yet still inside I felt alone,_

_For reasons unknown to me._

_But if you send for me you know I'll come,_

_And if you call for me you know I'll run._

_I'll run to you, I'll run to you, I'll run, run, run._

_I'll come to you, I'll come to you, I'll come, come, come."_

-LanaDel Rey, Old Money

_"__And I hear your words that I made up,_

_You say my name like there could be an us._

_I best tidy up my head, I'm the only one in love,_

_I'm the only one in love."_

_-_Adele, Melt My Heart To Stone

**Gods and Monsters**

**Chapter V**

It was a miserable way to join the team, poached from Six simultaneous to Danny's death, but Zaf weathered the circumstances with more tact than he would have expected from one so young, proving the changing times in his ancestry a widely sought after commodity. Danny had made his choice, provoking his own execution, sacrificing himself to save Fiona, to save Adam the torture of having to choose between them. He often finds himself wondering if Danny's life began ticking down the moment he had pleaded with Zoe to leave, embrace exile, save herself, live a life more real than she would have opportunity otherwise. It seemed to him Danny's pleas, as he had listened, had willed her to see the sense of exile, were entreaties for them both, that through her, he would achieve some measure of normalcy just beyond his fingertips, as though he knew he would never get out alive. No pasture for Danny, but a name scarring the wall. We lost Sam as well, needing to be sedated, unable to process the limitless hazards, incapable of reconciling that our turns come by whim, not reason, happenstance as a car crash, whether we survive, or die, up to the fates.

She had demanded to accompany him, refusing to relinquish her chance to see him, believing him still alive while her eyes could not yet hold him. Telling herself that it wasn't real until she was stood next to him, a response, however ill founded, he understood well. She spoke briefly, to tell him of the pledge they had made to one another, after the Forestall debacle, that they would always be there for one another, regardless of circumstance, danger, fear, that they would never let the other down. How could he have denied her the fulfillment of her word, of her vow spoken? That she had stayed at her post, flinching as the gunshot rang out over comms, dazed, staring as Sam dissolved, wailing from the depths of shock, but remaining, as true to her vow, never abandoning him.

Small, such a tiny, vulnerable thing, hugging herself as they left the grid, her grief was palpable, and he was forced to reconcile that, for him, and perhaps him alone, the deaths of those under him, while uncomfortable, had become something of an expectation, one in which he'd accustomed himself almost from the moment of first introduction. This one will die, too, perhaps soon, perhaps not, but best not to get too close, care too much, feel, love. Numbing, his years spent in the service, a survival mechanism, the cloak of protection he draped about himself without fail. Until her. Until he watched at a distance, as she carefully and with a delicate sense of reverence revealed Danny's face, gently caressing him, speaking softly, attempting to comfort someone who was already gone, attempting to absolve and comfort herself in the process. He wanted nothing more than to envelope her within his cloak of protection, to whisper in her ear the secrets of being numb, the relief found when the expected eventually became reality, an obscene need to harden her because her visible pain was more than he could bear, skirting his cloak, burrowing into his subconscious, thawing his heart.

Driving back into London, she did not speak, and he allowed the silence to continue, uncomfortable for him, irrelevant to her. She was staring into the pastoral expanse before her, registering little of it's beauty, her tears having dried, but she was dangerously far away, her eyes red and glazed, her mind elsewhere, perhaps with Danny, perhaps her father, both, he could not guess. Two dead men whom she had loved and cared for, who shared the same surname. Two Daniels taken from her too soon, leaving her behind to grieve, alone. He had reached across the divide, gently grasping her hand, bringing it to his lips, just brushing the surface of her palm, placing it between them, done before he had thought to think, before he had time to consider if she would welcome his touch. She had not pulled away, had chosen to remain connected to him, the fingertips of her left hand absently brushing the top of his, her attempt at self comfort, a connection he told himself prevented her from spiraling away into the darker depths waiting for her arrival. His silent vow, so like Danny's, becoming the anchor she needed, seeking to replace the safe haven she had lost with his death. Silently contemplating, he comported his face to hide the sense of victory he was experiencing, his thoughts a betrayal of Danny, of himself, of her. Death, the great equalizer, walked the periphery of their connection, he and Ruth's, and he tried not to identify the crumbling foundation, ignored the truth of what it signified, the outcome it demanded, the moments of affection bought by the cost of fatal losses, real or imagined. Instead, he drove, allowing the ripples of electricity to pass along his arm, memorizing the feel of her light touch, her fingertips, scarring his heart with her name, even as Danny's was added to the scars deep inside Thames House.

"These things we see, Harry, the decisions we make, I can't...I don't see where we...Do we make a difference...Does his death...Harry..." the last on a sigh, her face crumbling, tears sliding down her cheeks anew, her hand still held in his, and he had pulled the car over, lifting the center console, pulling her into his arms as her body shook with grief, as she poured out her pain, her face buried into his neck, his arms securely around her. Her lips had found his pulse, and she drew a deep breath, inhaled him, his mouth on her hair, her forehead, overwhelmed by her proximity and his need to feel her, consume her grief and pain, desperate for her know she was not alone, desperate for her to stay tethered to him. Holding her face, gazing into her eyes, memorizing every line, every imperfection, caressing them in his thoughts, he made promises, blundering and rushed, one after the other, securing the tenuous connection keeping her present, with him. There will be time to grieve, he had vowed, he will not be forgotten in this, _his sacrifice had meaning_, denying the truth of his understanding of _meaning_, denying his arrogance in grasping the opportunity of having her, to himself, without encumbrance. Denying, too, his ability to fulfill them lay beyond his grasp, a considerable absence from his skills and talents proven with consistent frequency, his spoken vows, empty, hollow words without substance, as undefined as Mr. Shadow himself.

"Can we stop? I really...I could use a drink. I can't face the grid, not like th..this. Not now." Her eyes red, swollen, their color a combination not yet identified, and he remembers thinking how it was that a woman's eyes after crying become a color so striking, so intense and foreign that it can make a man's heart stop from the urge to drown in them? He knew better than to acquiesce, well versed in his susceptibility to the draw of situations illicit and dangerous, shivers tickling his lower spine a symptomatic tell, the heat rising and spreading across his chest, his better angels silenced in the onslaught of coursing adrenaline. Yet Death, their constant companion, had forged this opportunity, and his callous, desensitized heart could not deny serendipity, nor the demands of selfishness, his ruthless nature refusing to be denied. He could have simply driven directly to her home, releasing her from returning with him to Thames House, releasing her from his grasp to grieve alone, _it is enough today, Ruth, rest yourself, love,_ but found himself unable, physically incapable of passing the first pub he could find, turning roughly at the last moment, ushering her to a table in the back. It was suitably dark, sparsely inhabited at that hour, and, in his recollection, perfect given the circumstances.

"Hmmm, Jameson's rocks. Double, please," removing her coat, sliding into the booth, she looked tired, drained, and altogether beautiful to him. Warring with himself, his fantasies and day dreams falling, one by one, pale victims of his sense of self, his very nature considerably more similar to the malignant seed reposing in his revived heart, demanding failure, demanding status quo results, reminding him he deserved no more, and so much less. He told himself he was not taking advantage, he had not manipulated this, and would have been successful, his sense of justification solidifying, but for his treacherous heart, it's venomous dialogue a refrain as he returned to her, _you are mine, Mr. Shadow, in this act, in this lie, you are my fatal twin._

"Ruth, I know you and Danny were close, and this..." Settling himself, ignoring the deleterious refrain, even then, flowing unrepentant through his consciousness.

"I don't want to talk about Danny, right now, not now, if that's all right, with you?" Said in a rush as one would after anticipating the necessity, relieved to have done with.

"Of course." She was rubbing her forehead, eyes closed, as though in doing so she could forget all that she knew, erase the pain of it. Eventually lowering her hand, she had begun dragging the water droplets from her glass in circles on the tabletop, forming infinity signs with the moisture, "Did you like your birthday present?"

"My birthday?...Oh, yes, yes I did. Very much. Though I shudder to think of the cost, Ruth." She had hidden four bottles of my favorite scotch, and had written her initials on the top of each. At the time, if he remembers accurately, he was halfway through the "R" bottle, thinking of her with every sip consumed, as though every swallow was drinking her, ingesting her, allowing her inside.

She smiled, eyes still closed, and tilted her head slightly, and he was overcome with the urge take her in his arms, rest her head on his shoulder, but refrained from doing so, the moment so delicate, so precious, he was loathe to disrupt it, to do anything which might break the spell.

"My father's name was Daniel. It means _God is my judge_ in Hebrew. Did you know that? If God is your only judge, rather leaves the field of opportunity wide open, doesn't it?" Leaning back into the booth, her hand on her tumbler, a Mona Lisa smile on her face, her secrets, her meaning her own.

"Tell me about your father, Ruth." Rolling her name on his tongue, tasting it, like a prayer.

Sighing deeply, "He was a doctor, but you already know that." Looking directly at him, her eyes penetrating, daring him to deny he'd read her file. "He was a good man, honest, and gone too soon. I wonder, sometimes, if he would have been proud of me, of what I have become. His death was...very difficult, sudden..." Leaning her head back again, exposing the length of her neck, he can see her pulse beating, a faint shiver, wanting nothing more in that moment but to place his lips against it. Death, as always, his companion with Ruth, a twisted Cyrano de Bergerac to their Christian and Roxane.

"I think he would have been. You are an exceptional...you are a very rare find, Ruth." His voice hoarse, his throat closing as the words pass, his thoughts spiraling away, defiant in their lack of chastity, defiant of his considerable will to remain innocuous despite his internal pestilence.

"We promised each other, we promised never to become so jaded, so bitter and alone, like Andrew, so detached that we could no longer feel anything, see the beauty that surrounds us...everyday..." Sipping from her tumbler, brows furrowed, trying to divine meaning, see the pattern through the maze of irreconcilable circumstances.

It took a moment for him to realize she was referring to Danny Hunter, then another as he remembered during his debrief Danny had warned him of his concern for Ruth, his apprehension regarding her gentle nature surviving the onslaught of terror, the choices, the things we see and do. She had watched someone she knew, had known, had not known at all, suffocate, the life squeezed from him in his greed, his hand reaching for her, a silent plea before falling still. His eyes had stayed on her, clouding over as his body shut down, organ by organ, dominoes triggering the next, the orchestration of dying, and she, an unwilling witness, rendered immobile, had wept for him, the loss of his genius and promise, the contagion that had grown to consume his soul. Danny had included it all in his debrief, an absolution, a prayer, a warning, a prophecy.

"I...sometimes I feel parts of me closing off. It's as though I'm there, but distant, an observer, beyond reach, watching the parts darken, little bits and pieces of myself, getting smaller, and then nothing, but, so strange, it's loud, the darkness, so mind numbingly loud that I just want it to stop...stop ringing." He sees the fear, the panic in her eyes, her revelation drawn from the depths of her, laid out before him, her understanding that we all, inside, are mere moments from giving in to the darkness, a few disappointments away from becoming Andrew Forestall, and he reaches to still her fidgeting hands, holding them firmly in his, drawing her towards him slightly, gently fortifying the tether, linking them even as her words attempt to disengage and destroy.

"Stay with me, Ruth." It was a plea. It was a prayer. It was his deepest desire, and his greatest fear. "Don't go away, don't hide alone in the darkness. Don't make that mistake. You deserve, you're worth so much more. Stay with me. Here. Now. Ruth." Hushed, his breath warming her cheek, his hands tightening around hers.

She had turned her head, responding from the distance, her eyes large, clouded, and he leaned forward, placing his lips against the slight furrow between her eyebrows, _I see you, Ruth,_ feeling her exhale against his throat, her body relax, her muscles settling, her hand pulling away from his, finding it's way to his neck, the tips of her fingers divining his increased pulse, her lips whispering against the hollow just above his loosened tie, drawing her back from despondency, guiding her back softly, his mind filled with her, _I see you, Ruth, I see all of you, I understand more than you know._

Unable to stop himself, his entire body humming with recognition, like finding like, he leaned down, kissing her neck as he helped her with her coat, her warmth, her scent mining in him a familiarity so powerful he had to grasp her shoulders to keep from swaying. And she, leaning back into him, her forehead turned just under his chin, standing together, time spanning and lost, and his malignant heart grateful for death, for the losses that brought to him, them, that moment, the seed smiling a deceiver's welcome.

Four days later, a mere hiccup, a benign blip in the eternity of time, he failed her, even as he could still recall the smell of her hair, and the feel of her forehead against his lips, he failed her.

"I need you," he had said, leaning close, breathing her in, and in that moment, as he watched, her breathing shallow, the skin tightening around her eyes, her desire to grieve waring with her desire to perform as expected, as he demanded, as he _needed_, giving way as she succumbed to him, replaced her desire to properly grieve with his need for her, his supremacy was established. He knew, in that very moment, he had achieved victory, but, as his malignant heart reminded, the seed bursting, victorious with darker intentions, _you, Mr. Shadow, have only begun to lose this war._

The catalyst of his failure took the form of_ Shining Dawn. _Ironic, he reflects, that he, the personification of that group's fanatical and twisted mission statement, the man who uses the death of a colleague as a sign his affection for another is fated, his actions justified, that _he_ should be the one tasked to stop them. Laughable, a dark, sardonic comedy of errors, made more so by the arrival of Juliet Shaw. Sleek, feline, and ruthless to her very core, Juliet swept in, and he watched, apprehensive, as life's indifferent wheel revolved full circle without the power to prevent it.

Liaising with the cousins, attempting to prevent several bombs from detonating under excruciating time constraints, incorporating Juliet into the action left him both scrambling to remove Ruth from the immediate vicinity, and resentful at the prolonged loss of her calming presence. He had hastily, though loathe to have her beyond his protective wing, instructed Adam to send her off grid, to pick the brain of Stephen Curtis, an idol of Michael Monroe's, Shining Dawn's leader, and while the intelligence she had gleaned was to become the definitive key to dismantling the group's intentions, a final devastating bomb, his decision to do so reflected, primarily, his eagerness to prevent any interaction between she and Juliet, the security of the realm falling a distant second. Who was it that said, _When it rains, it pours?_ Had she not been so successful with Professor Curtis, he might have been spared watching as both she and Juliet interrogated Monroe's right hand puppet, observing them, within feet of one another, and wondering, not for the first time, how he had ever thought, for even a moment, he had been in love with Juliet, that either one of them were capable of bringing to the surface something other than treachery in the other. Not love, never love, the blackmailing, treacherous bitch.

Ruth, alternatively, composed and poised in the midst of terrorism, calmly connecting, drawing the hints to form a picture, incandescent to his eyes, her inherent goodness making her a woman made to love, treasure, die for.

In the quiet of his car, he concludes he owes Michael Monroe and his band of genius misfits a debt of gratitude, one destructive tumor to another, for without their misguided and devious sense of right and wrong, Ruth would not have been sent into the field, and neither Adam nor he would be confident in her potential, her hidden strengths, her unfathomable depths. So too, Juliet's presence, evidence of the macabre sense of humor fashioned by the gods, for lacking his desperate need to keep them apart, Adam would have found himself short a tree branch, adding another name to an already extravagantly scarred wall.

He had conducted her debrief, his mind half distracted by Juliet's threat of blackmail, her desire to remain in London made plain, the lengths to ensure it's actuality detailed unmercifully, and he was reminded of the weaknesses the softer emotions within the species can unhinge, the damage done when allowed release from the controlled captivity of self restraint. Compromised by actions over fifteen years in the past, his deserving consequence, of course, because it is a deserving man who foolishly ignored the past which never slumbered, but remained within him, a parasite feeding into the present, never sated. She did not bother to hide her distaste for Professor Curtis, _smug, elitist, pontificating prat _figured prominently in description and evaluation, she nevertheless held the glassy stare of a successful field operative, and he had nodded, only half listening, watched the characteristic adrenaline as it drove her on.

He had understood, as the words passed Juliet's lips, _love, careless love_, voluntary resignation remained his only option. So it was, then, not the scarred wall for Harry Pearce, but pasture and disgrace. Ironic, love proving to be his undoing as well, like Tom before him, bettered by one underestimated by him, lurking in his past, awaiting an opportunity to pounce, simultaneous to his heart daring again, peeking around the walls he'd painstakingly erected, knowing her without knowing at all. And while he regretted his choice, regretted the sudden, unexpected end of his vaulted career, the voluntary sacrifice of what had become his life's meaning and duty, it was the additional, necessary loss of her that struck him most deeply. The viciousness of that fact, tearing through his thoughts, feeding his enmity and bitterness, the malevolent seed demanding satisfaction,_ did I not warn you, who are you but a man, pathetic and yearning as an infant?_ _This is what comes of vulnerability_, _had you forgotten, were you not told?_

He had offered her a ride home, out of courtesy, and she had surprised him by accepting, uncharacteristic, interpreted as a sign to come clean with her, an opportunity to tell her of his predicament, to wash himself clean while providing her the tools to turn from him, judge him, forsake him as was necessary, as was required. Parked outside hers, he had felt her watching him, as he'd studied his gloved hands still tightened around the steering wheel, squeezing, releasing, over, and again.

"Ruth, I..."

"Come inside, Harry," opening the door, she had stepped out, had already unlocked her front door and entered by the time he had exited, her certainty that he would follow established in failing to close the door behind her. He did, of course, and was slightly bemused as he acknowledged he had been incapable of doing otherwise. He remembers smiling a bit as he walked the hallway, peering around doors, seeing the organized chaos that he had come to associate with Ruth, her habitat so much a reflection of her, chaotic, unpredictable, inasmuch as his own home reflected his iron fisted self restraint, searching for the room she had chosen, eventually locating her in the kitchen.

She had already poured them both a tumbler of whiskey, his significantly more in proportion to hers. She had casually motioned for him to sit, and as he selected the chair next to hers, had slid his drink towards him, watching him over the rim of hers as she leaned back, her movements fluid and confident. He could still see the telltale signs of adrenaline, fading slightly, but still present to his trained eye, and wondered how much of her countenance was down to the fading rush, steeling himself to bid her a gratuitous be well and goodbye. Mr. Shadow, there, gone, never was.

"I'm going to have to do something tomorrow. I'm left no option, really. It's my own fault," sighing, shaking my head at the crap timing, the wheel turning, "Time's come to face the proverbial music." Downing the contents in one, reaching for the bottle, his conscience ringing in his ears, _careful, Harry, softly, softly._

"It seems..."

"Juliet." Interrupted, a statement, rather than question, a simple prod to get to the point, or a technique to avoid hearing of her, either, both, he couldn't be certain. Her face revealed nothing, no clues to what she was thinking, no tells to aid him, navigating her mind, her intentions as a blind man navigating an unfamiliar terrain, his imagination the fingertips, delving.

"We had a...an alliance once, a long time ago. It's left me a bit compromised. More than a bit, if I'm honest. She wants to stay in the UK, with the service, and, well blackmailing me to ensure it." Swirling the contents before taking a deep swallow, wanting to wash his mouth of it, the memory, the words, the shame, the guilt and regret, not daring to look at her.

"Did you love her?" Culling the intelligence, no surprise, forming the picture in her mind, the conclusions to be drawn remaining with her until she had exhausted every possibility, sucked the marrow and discarded the bone, clinical in her approach, sharp as a scalpel's blade.

_Jesus Christ. _

"At the time, maybe..." His frustration getting the better of him, he snapped at being invaded, dissected, even as he felt the hypocrisy of it, rich and luxurious, his own worst enemy. Had it been Tom who had provoked me, _physician heal thyself? _And in that act of confession, to her, had that not been exactly what he told himself he was doing, the lie he had asked himself to swallow without offense, as though he was not the man he knew himself to be, down deep, where the truth festers extravagantly?

"Christ, Ruth, I don't bloody know, maybe I loved her, maybe I loved the thrill of it, maybe I loved a thorough, hard fuck with someone I could talk myself into caring for, or not at all, maybe I loved that I saw myself reflected in her, another ruthless, maliciously cruel and empty mirror of myself, an act of soul crushing masturbation, I don't fucking know the answer to that!"

She had physically flinched from his words, withdrawn her eyes to her whiskey, as yet untouched, her breathing audible, and he had wished the outburst, the cruelty of it, both, back into his mouth, unspoken rather than be forced to watch the effect they had, drawing first blood, as she retreated to her corner, wounded.

"God, Ruth...I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."

"No. I understand. I do, Harry," his name on her lips, soft, mesmerizing, infinite, unfolding herself from the distance of withdrawal. "You regret her, you regret your actions and feelings..."

"I never loved her, I never did...Not then, and bloody well not now."

"But you _do_ regret her, and if I'm understanding you correctly, you're planning on doing something...tomorrow...that is a consequence of that feeling. As if, by doing it, you reclaim some measure of control. But you can't, Harry. You can't ever control the past." Chewing her lip, her face a picture of apprehension and interest, deliberating whether to continue, resolving to dare.

"What is the something, Harry?"

"Offer my resignation." He had said it, matter of fact, blunt, as unalterable as the past that haunted him. A stricken look flashed across her face, and he is shamed to admit he enjoyed the idea she should be stricken by his absence, that it should cause her anguish, a poor chess move in a previously fixed game, punishing her for making it easier for him, always.

"Because of an indiscretion over fifteen years ago? That's a bit of an overreaction? I mean surely..." Her eyes sharp, indignant at the suggestion, she had, he knew, already began an outline in her head, designed the step by step process necessary to dismantle Juliet's attack, and he half wished he could allow her to act, his heart near to bursting at her vehement display of loyalty, his baser urges welcoming the opportunity to watch Juliet squirm uncomfortably under Ruth's deadly focus. It was, after all, the nature of infection to travel silently, traversing the body, liberating toxins to destroy and plunder, one weak moment, one single opening, and all that is healthy and good deteriorates in the face of such seduction, eroding and unrecognizable, a shadow of desolation foretold in the first deliberate act against conscience. _No, he vowed to himself, not Ruth._

"There's more, Ruth...and I'm afraid I can't tell you all of it. It was the operation we were involved in, sanctioned, but off the books...if it were just the _indiscretion_ I wouldn't bother, I can assure you."

"So, what, she wins, then? You're just going to let her do this?"

"There are no victors in this kind of war, I'm afraid. Everyone loses, it's just a matter of degrees." Smiling at her gently, tilting his head, he felt lighter somehow, relieved without the ability to identify exactly why, but deliciously at peace, the afterglow, he assumed, of having become resolved to one's circumstances.

"You are to do nothing, do you understand?" To his ear, his tone was light, a bit teasing, the smile he wore decorating the words as they came forward, disguising the panic he felt at keeping her uninvolved, untainted, beyond the muck he swam in, wanting his memory of her to remain untouched by his infected existence. She deserved her brilliant future, he rationalized.

"Harry..."

"I'll have your word on that, if you don't mind. Please, Ruth." He had chuckled a bit, for the necessity of extracting a promise of no joy as much as for the face of disapproval she made. It served to remind him of how very young she was, reverting to an angst addled countenance better suited to sullen teenagers, than the flourishing woman who so frequently occupied his thoughts.

"Fine." Huffing, exasperation clear and projected, slouching back into her seat, as resigned as he to the coming events, picking absently at the tablecloth before her.

And despite himself, despite his reasoning, his knowing better, his intended purpose, he couldn't bring himself to voice the consequence left unspoken, the reality of this goodbye, he, soon to become a new inhabitant of the multitudes, reborn and renamed, fresh from defeat, and she to the darkness that awaited at Thames House, unprotected.

He would look back on this moment with regret, he knew, lined up for the choosing with so many others, trotted out to torture without recourse, as he gazed at her, unselfconsciously, drinking her in as he sipped her whiskey, in the warmth of her kitchen, surrounded by the comfort of her belongings, the comfort of her presence, his new existence bereft of her, passing but never again making contact. Forbidden, he would become one of the disavowed and she his illicit obsession, denied his touch, his comfort, his protection, and the effort to suppress his fury at Juliet for destroying what had barely yet begun was Herculean, draining him to his very core as he desperately tried to maintain his composure, preserve the moment as bittersweet, rather than allow it to be destroyed, dripping with his bitterness.

And as they chatted amicably, having agreed, mutually, or so he had thought, the matter was settled, he began to think it could have been so good, with her, the possibilities dancing across his thoughts, flushed with fecundity, all that he had ever dared hope for. His heart, an internal betrayer, yearning to tell her what she had awakened in him, the gift she had brought him, before he disappeared into the ether, so that she would know however much she felt alone, untethered, she was with him, always and forever, anchored in his heart as no other before her.

It was, as he often thinks of it, a first date of sorts, unplanned and unexpected, resplendent with conversation and connection, they became comfortable in each other's company, delicately divining the other, relaxing into topics, revealing in fits and bursts. There was laughter, her nose crinkling adorably when she thought something equally amusing _and_ off color, wine after the whiskey, moments spent foraging for food, clumsy, unintentional contact, hands, fingers, shoulders, their inhibitions set aside in the haze as alcohol's warm effect resonated within them. He had been happy, in those few short hours, in a way he couldn't remember ever experiencing before, or had simply forgotten in the expanse of time, Smiling, he remembers the feeling coming as a shock, his system had shuddered with uncertainty, and he had attempted to aline it with something, anything, to categorize it, examine it, while his sense of control, his carefully constructed safety net struggled to reassert itself, wildly rejected in favor of an altogether unidentifiable emotion, once felt, impossible to willingly relinquish.

Foolish man, staring down at her upturned face, the evening with her drawing to a close, his sense of loss keen, pulsing through him, focused on reining in his urge to kiss her, to feel her lips on his, to pass his tongue along the ridges, tasting, savoring, for the first and last time before disappearing, his sacrifice of her a physical vibration resonating through his broken soul.

She had leaned up, placing a kiss on his cheek, whispering, "I wish you would reconsider, let me help you..." Her lips tickling his earlobe, her hand lightly resting on his chest, remaining there, her breathing warm on his neck, the hair on the back of his neck raised in response, as she waited, very close, _too bloody close_, for his reply.

He was lost in the scent of her, surprised by the bold physical contact, what could have been interpreted as an unspoken invitation, should he decide, and his body stirred in response, his cock tingling, seductive, illicit, forbidden, all melding together in a rush of unconsummated lust and yearning, making his head ring, wanting only to carry her upstairs and lovingly explore every inch of her, taking his time, languid, relishing the gift of her body.

"No, Ruth." Placing his hands on her shoulders, squeezing even as he drew himself away from her, smiling sadly, "You already have helped me. You have." Kissing her forehead, chaste, knowing time had begun ticking down the moment he arrived, counting off the minutes, measuring the moments he had left against the moment he possessed no more, resignation accepted, a Mr. Never-Was waiting to be born.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Harry?" Something in her tone, subtle, easily overlooked, but he had heard it, and his heart identified it as regret, like recognizing like, and he believed it possible that she would regret his loss as he would hers, that she knew, without needing to be told he would fade into the background, one of the masses, protected at all costs, anonymous.

"Yes, Ruth, tomorrow. You take care, yes?"

She had nodded, smiling, but in her eyes he had glimpsed dread, and the mask she wore, dropping a bit before closing the door behind him, could not hide her doubt and unease. And he, left standing in the darkness, silently wishing he could take it all back, yet, oddly comforted, knowing in his lifetime of deplorable, reprehensible moments, he would come to understand this as a single moment for redemption of deeds past, he had, at long last, despite his nature, his baser instincts, chosen correctly. He had released her.

As he drove home, he had congratulated himself, so full of wonder that he had overcome his inherently poisonous instincts, saving her, and himself to an extent, in the process, his demons silenced for a precious few moments, his slumber deep and uninterrupted for the first time in many years. How was he to know, then, the demons were simply resting, planning a strategy, awaiting the moment to unveil themselves for the recommencement, the ceremony he knew by rote? How was he to know all that would come?

How was he to know, then, it had been only a rehearsal for their first goodbye?

**_***In this chapter I tried to come up with plausible ways in which Harry would begin to see Ruth as receptive and aware of his attentions, but still somewhat in keeping with the series. To me, the two of them having a drink after identifying Danny's body seemed in keeping with a gathering of friends, and toasts, etc. It also seemed rather likely that with Juliet back, Harry would be rather more keen to keep their (she and Ruth's, perhaps his own, too) interactions to a minimum, and a late night debrief, leading to a ride home did not feel like I was stretching it. In all, I felt the circumstances I came up with plausible if viewed through the scope of colleagues dealing with difficult circumstances in any workplace, the personal affections aside, and provided a good opportunity for them to become a bit more familiar with one another as colleagues verging on friendship. I also took liberties in making Ruth more bold and forward, but not so much she became, IMHO, unrecognizable. Reviews make me smile, and are always appreciated. Thank you all who have taken the time, your effort is altogether humbling for me. _**


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N_**_: This chapter revolves entirely around 4.5 because I thought that the first episode to overtly address Harry's growing attachment, and Ruth's ability to see past the walls he uses to hide himself, and his more vulnerable aspects. Also, the phone call early in the episode never fails to make me laugh, and thus is provided here, all credits due KUDOS/BBC. _**

**_I want to thank everyone who has taken the time to review, particularly r4ven3 for your very kind words as regards chapter 5, and to those "guests" who leave reviews-as a former guest myself, I enjoyed a great many authors/fics, but it was _****_Hook, Line, and Sinker _****_ that was so exceptional, (70 plus chapters-what!) to me that it was my first review, and the impetus for my becoming a member, and trying my hand after a very long time. So, thank you, Airgead for your unintended, much appreciated, inspiration. I actually feel rather bad that I didn't review all the works that I have enjoyed, in no small part because I never understood the importance until I found myself waiting for the same. Please consider this my blanket thank you for every single effort each of you have put forth, and enjoy!_**

**_XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX _**

_"__If you could hear me love,_

_I'd tell you my story._

_To you and only you,_

_So love that you might save me._

_I woke up from a dream,_

_I woke up I was crying._

_I saw an animal,_

_With Eyes like mine on fire._

_I saw my own true love,_

_She was a sullen flower,_

_Was she forget-me-nots,_

_White Lillies or red roses._

_And then from far way,_

_Who's that I see come riding,_

_Upon a pale white horse,_

_Come riding fast as lightning._

_Oh, if you can hear me love,_

_I'd tell you my story,_

_So that you might save me._

_So that you might save me,_

_So that you might save me."_

_*_The Gutter Twins, All Misery/Flowers*

_"__It's you, it's you, it's all for you,_

_Everything I do._

_I tell you all the time,_

_Heaven is a place on earth with you, _

_Tell me all the things you wanna do._

_I heard that you like the bad girls,_

_Honey, is that true?_

_It's better than I ever even knew,_

_They say that the world was built for two._

_Only worth living if somebody is loving you,_

_Baby, now you do._

*Lana Del Rey, Video Games*

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

**GODS and MONSTERS**

**Chapter VI**

Still riding the high from the previous evening spent with Ruth, euphoric with the knowledge that he had, in those few short hours, been tested, his nature provoked, wanting to succumb, wanting to take her, soil her, infect her, sink himself deep inside her warmth and reveal themselves to one another, but he had abstained, stepped back from the void, met it eye to eye, smiling as he released her from his claws, his moment of redemption realized, and it was enough, more than, truthfully.

He had, subsequently, offered his resignation to the Home Secretary, reluctantly detailing the cause without revealing Juliet's part in his decision, and was, in a word, rebuffed, the Home Secretary's refusal to accept presented in a calm, but firm, denial. Despite his assertion that Juliet Shaw was a, quote, ruthless, untrustworthy, right-wing crazy who will stop at nothing, deliberately leaving out _who is blackmailing me whilst stroking the PM, proper duplicitous lick-spittle that she is, _she was, nevertheless, named National Security Coordinator, and to his absolute vexation, became, with the stroke of a single extravagant pen, one of a few supervisors he was immediately subject to.

The fates, with their macabre sense of humor never failed to surprise, their endless avenues of attack, their ingenuity, frustrating him by reestablishing this albatross around his neck for want of entertainment, Pandora's Box a play thing to be volleyed about to amuse and delight. And, as expected, she became a thorn in his side from the moment she assumed her post, predictable as taxes, and just as bloody interfering and annoying.

His saving grace, the point on which he meditated with alarming frequency, smoothing his ruffled feathers, soothing his festering resentment of Juliet's continued presence and position, his evening with Ruth, unparalleled in his concentration and focus, the entirety of his immediate future evolving, in his darkest heart, to include her in an increasingly inappropriate way. Staggering, the moments within a day she came to mind, his memory of her breath in his ear, the warmth of her cheek against his lips, and inevitable that his interpretation would begin, quite unconsciously, to embrace the moments they had shared at her front door as an invitation for him to pursue her, receptive and welcoming. In his daydreams he came to believe she was, her lips against his ear, panting, trembling for him to touch her, and while she had not actually behaved thus, his fantasies had been unleashed from forced slumber, resuscitated, alert, the results kaleidoscopic in colors and rich with embellishments.

In his darker, more disconsolate moments, he found himself angry he had not availed himself a shower in his office, and began to close his blinds with greater frequency, a vain effort, he knew with absolute certainty, to block his line of sight to her, preventing her from becoming more incapacitating, desperate to continue his victory over the eyes that beckoned from deep within the void, sirens calling to his nature, hypnotizing and demanding, the language of his desolate heart pouring from the murky depths. And, she, innocently unaware of his desperate efforts, barging without knocking, breathless with some new piece of intelligence, assaulting his senses, luminous, flush, his dream in flesh, his nightmare taunting.

They had not, in the time he began referring to as between then and now, endeavored further into their developing friendship, and in his deliberate dismissal, his denial that evening, and every day that laboriously followed of anything beyond such, he began to appear more melancholic, behaving as though he had suffered some great loss unidentified to the greater whole of those present around him. Short in temper, callous and cutting in commentary, the sudden death of Clive McTaggart shook him to his very foundation, the conclusion drawn to that of suicide an additional offense he was both hard pressed to accept and wrap his mind around, stoking his already simmering melancholy and disenchantment. In a rare nod to solidarity, he sought out Juliet and Roy Woodring, current head of Six, field colleagues, all, in years past, each offering tidbits of history, some known, some a revelation, all meant to help bid a fallen comrade farewell, safe passage.

Death, the hallmark of their curious union, the catalyst of every moment he treasured as fated for him, them, alone, drawing her to his side again, and his callous heart rejoicing, willing to suffer so many deaths if it meant she would remain tethered to him, next to him in the exchange, a life for their life together yet undetermined, his vile, immoral nature concluding it fair.

He remembered she had quietly crossed the threshold of his office, standing there, _stealthy little minx_, before he'd opportunity to notice, atypical for them both, and, momentarily catching him off guard, had inquired softly if he was okay. Unaccustomed as he had become to displays of concern for his wellbeing, he literally could not fathom an answer, the words lost to him, feelings alighted with her gentle way, her token of concern disquieting, bewildering, jarring and, _yes_, _God help him_, so terribly desired, staring at her, open faced, dumbfounded by the rush of foreign emotions thundering across his habitual state of weariness.

"If you need to talk, I'm available...Well, no, not availa...That's not what I meant to say. I'm willing to listen. No, that's...Not like a chore, I wouldn't look at it like...It's just that it helps, sometimes, to talk...Get it off my chest...Your chest, yours, my...my chest is fine, No, I'm...oh, shag it. A drink, with me, to talk, is all...or something. Or not. That would be fine, too." He'd identified the tells the moment she stopped speaking. Eyes closed, mouth dropped open, the "O" shape delighting him no end, shaking her head, the physical hallmarks of someone in the midst of an internal dialogue in the vein of _what the actual fuck did I just do?_ And, while evaluating her physical betrayals, his mind and nature confounding him with images of her chest, exposed, wonton, lush, he had, despite these considerable distractions, or possibly _because_ of them, managed to isolate three words, a refrain dancing gleefully in his consciousness. Drink. With. Me. _Drink with me. Drink with me._

_Oh, if only..._

He had spent an exorbitant amount of time during his evenings at home, customary drink in hand, surrounded by solitude, deafening, rationalizing his actions with Ruth in the period surrounding Danny's death. He had habitually vacillated between justifying his daring to place his lips on her, unbidden, venturing to hold her hand, an unsolicited caress, as merely physical expressions of comfort, an innocent attempt to keep her tethered, and damning himself for knowing his actions, while genuine in intent,_ maybe_, _who was he kidding_, were reflections of his baser needs, his lust and desire to conquer her, his truer self in evidence, his need for her to be present with him, to look at him in that way, that signature Ruth look that spoke to his ego, petting and smoothing his vanity, his self absorption, that sang clear and bright, you interest me, _I see you_.

It became part of the exercise that he ignore the glaring absences of similar behavior with others, part of the exercise that he consistently remind himself that his better angels were accessible to him, should he desire, but the dark void, the mirror by which he defined himself, knew his truer self, embraced by the treachery in his heart, repelled every justification his fecund mind could mine, laughed in the face of every rationalization used to pacify, and screamed from indefinable depths, _I see you, too. _

He'd declined her offer, added gratuitous reassurances that he was quite fine, thank you, though he appreciated the offer. He knew, as the words left his mouth, he would regret this as a missed opportunity, her silent acceptance, curt nod and concentration involving the patterns within his office carpeting all suggested, resoundingly, she would not be likely to risk another olive branch in the future. Though he knew it was the right decision, deemed it proper, the truth was he didn't trust himself alone with her, didn't trust he'd have the willpower to repeat his self denial, releasing her again seemed an impossibility. It was one thing to toast Danny, the two of them in an unnamed pub in an unfamiliar place, they had both known him, both mourned him in their individual ways, but Clive was unknown to her, and given the absence of an established familiarity with him, his desire to join Ruth for a drink was exactly that, a desire for a drink by any means available, Death his willing accomplice, Clive the incidental corpse and friend, yet necessary to propagate the lie. The obscenity of his thoughts both sickened him, and validated his decision to decline, distance himself from her as he had distanced himself from everyone, for their own good, for their own safety, for his peace of mind.

"Harry, you don't have to talk to me. That's...that's fine. Really, it is." She was speaking so softly, he'd found himself leaning forward, catching every other word despite his proximity, but her face suggested she was on the verge of another question, one she intuitively understood would cross a boundary between them, steeling herself before his eyes. He also knew that whatever it was she asked of him, he would answer, without question or delay, if only to keep her there with him, if only to extend this moment in time with her.

"Do you...Who is...Who is there for you, Harry? Who do you turn to when...When you need someone? Is there anybody who...?" She had left the remainder hanging between them, unspoken, but understood, afraid to breach protocol without being aware that he spent a fair portion of his waking moments imagining she would.

_Who do I turn to, for Christ's sake?_ How does she strike, with effortless consistency, straight to the center of my deepest insecurities and fears?

Well, _Johnny Walker Blue _was the short answer, the first that came to him, followed in short order by _nameless pull from a pub, wine,_ and, finally, _Scarlett. _He had chosen the lesser of all his coping evils, internally chiding himself for refusing her even as he applauded himself for his self restraint.

"Scarlett. She's the best listener, never interrupts me, doesn't judge, and knows how to keep a secret." He had smiled at her, his meager attempt at brevity, his bravado on full display, a rooster in full flourish.

"Oh, I see, of course," backing away, moving quickly, and his oversight occurred to him, so obvious he could have kicked himself, rushing to clarify before she escaped.

"Of course, she does have a tendency to sit on my lap and lick my nose, she leaves food all around where she eats,_ very sloppy eater_, she's a bit hairy, which isn't unattractive if you like that sort of thing, chews my socks, sometimes I have to brush her teeth, and she has a very offensive habit of licking her own ass, if I'm being honest. Ruth, Scarlett is my..."

"...Dog."

"...Dog."

Spoken simultaneously, she had giggled, adorably covering her mouth, her posture becoming the most beguiling _aw shucks, ya got me_ pose he had ever known, but it was the look of relief that lit up her face as she had first turned back to face him, as realization dawned with an emanating light that would rival a sunrise in his eyes, that there wasn't some women waiting for him, waiting to comfort him, waiting to make his pain go away, which made his lower spine begin to tingle, his fingertips itching to touch her, his instinct that she felt the same echoing throughout him. And the dark void, their unseen spectator, urging him forward, _she feels the same, mate_, it whispered, and his resolve to distance himself collapsed, folding in on itself, as though it had never even existed.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Her single request was a pub other than The George, _too many witnesses_, her voluntary reason, and he found himself struggling to control his immediate reaction to the illicit connotations, his nature acutely attuned to the deep-seated harmonious existence between his instincts and those situations inherently prohibited, unsanctioned, lurid. They had walked from Thames House, each maintaining a distance between them that suggested friendship, but not so much that it telegraphed merely colleagues, their hands brushing the back of the other's intermittently, but frequently enough to imply more than accidental. He was reminded of when he was a boy, mad for Rebecca Swanson, who ended up dating his best friend at the time, _what was his name, David, Daniel? Daniel. _The name struck him, serendipity having it's curious way, affecting him to such an extent that he slowed his pace, and she, having continued, turned, a question on her face, and he thinking only _surely another sign._

They had settled on The Hound, off the beaten path of those in the services, clandestine and rather seedy, but not in an altogether unpleasant way, dark and prone to catering to "regulars," the kind not unfamiliar to daylight hours spent with hands wrapped securely around alcohol of some form or another. The place, at least to his eye, seemed appropriate in a way he was unable to define, full, loud, and fortuitous that they had managed to capture the two remaining bar seats available. This was a place Clive would have frequented, sitting in a corner, his eyes bright and alert, watching without watching, evaluating, divining backstories, a participant without any effort to engage.

They ordered, and she had turned to him, a look of expectation on her face, waiting for him to begin, waiting for him to unmask and expose his pain, grief, his feelings of loss, he couldn't know exactly, his intention more alined with simply observing her.

"So, Scarlett," she volleyed, her eyes dancing with amusement, leaning far into him, her hand on his shoulder, drawing him closer "I wouldn't have guessed you a fan of Margaret Mitchell..."

"Then you would be..." But she was shaking her head, pointing to her ear and leaning in, gestures he had assumed meant she couldn't hear his reply. He had turned sideways in the stool, facing her, and placing his hand on her right arm, pulled her until she mirrored his position, facing one another. Acting on impulse, two anonymous people in a pub full of regulars after all, he slid his hands to the seat of her chair, dragging it towards him while simultaneously moving his left leg to allow for her right leg to fit securely between his, effectively establishing her proximity to as close to in his lap as would suit while both remained seated.

"Then you would be wrong," he repeated, leaning in next to her ear, one hand still grasping the side of her stool, his thumb absently caressing the side of her thigh, his mind occupied by how fluid it all seemed to him, natural, completely, utterly, devastatingly natural.

"Is this Harry Pearce? _The_ Harry Pearce admitting to a fondness for something Irish?" Her voice had dropped in tone, deep and seductively whiskey soaked, he could feel her smile close to his ear, leaning towards him, her hand on his knee for balance, causing an involuntary twitch along his inner thigh, delicious.

"I've been known to enjoy their whiskey on occasion." Pulling back, smiling, tilting his head to the left, regarding her as she considered his reply, hoping she wouldn't remove her hand from his knee, envisioning her moving it further up his thigh, feeling the pleasing tremors as they shivered towards his cock, knowing he was approaching dangerous territory, welcoming it's arrival and satisfaction.

Instead, she had leaned back, removed her hand, the imprint suddenly cold where it had lain, sipping her drink, watching him, the wheels turning behind her eyes, no hint of their mechanics or conclusions in the offing, her face content, serene, expectant. The potential this woman has is unfathomable, he remembers thinking, that her innate skill at knowing exactly when to approach and when to retreat, the push and pull of human connection, communication, completely unconscious, authentically a part of her make up. He'd concluded, in that moment, that he hadn't the strength to deny the urge to delve deep into her, to mine her for the riches she could offer up, to scrape her out from the inside and examine the totality of her contents, reverently, gently fondling each finding as it was revealed, taking her hand, asking that she plunge into the dark void with him.

"Scarlett." He didn't actually hear her, but had watched her mouth form the words, recalling her earlier question, her face reflecting a heightened awareness of the effect she was having, her eyes taking on a dark shine, and before he could stop himself, his cock beginning to stir, his pulse throbbing rhythmically along it's length, he had grasped both her legs behind her knees, drawing her forward to him, her bum sliding along her seat, leaning into her ear, breathing her name, rolling it on his tongue before releasing it.

"Ruth, brilliant, dark haired, light eyed women who refuse to conform to conventions continue to be a weakness of mine. One of very few, I might add." He had touched the tip of her ear lobe with his tongue, and she had shivered, dropping her head back slightly, Mona Lisa smile decorating her mouth, eyes closed, her right hand moving to cover his left, squeezing it as he squeezed her lower thigh. Staring into the abyss, moving too quickly and not quickly enough, her wanted to take her then and there, force her to reveal the meaning behind her smile, the secrets she kept hidden, demand to know if she was likeminded in intentions, or if she was, like those before her, after something from him not yet named, unspecified, but certainly not him, not his heart and soul. Could he fuck her, ruthlessly fuck her senseless, like those before her? _Yes,_ the dark void answered, _bury yourself deep, divest yourself of conscience, guilt,_ _infect her even as she destroys you._

The din of the room had faded, the patrons becoming blurred faces melding easily into one another, indistinguishable, and she had reached her hand up, her thumb smoothing the creases next to his eye, moving further up to his forehead, applying some pressure, as if to push the mutinous thoughts contained within away, a soft _Harry_ escaping her lips.

The physical connection was all it took, and his walls crumbled, gave way to his need to unburden himself, his desire to share his burden, to trust in another enough to expose himself, unresistant, in defiance of his stoic and guarded nature. He confessed to his fear that Clive was a cautionary tale, a prophetic event which foretold his eternal solitude, his marriage to the security services, like his, one of absolute monogamy, not made to suffer the attentions of a rival, demanding submission, name on a wall, or retirement to some distant lonely someplace, carrying his burdens even after his last breath, his duty, marooned with only his bitterness and solitude for company. She had kept her palm against his forehead, her other placed gently against his cheek, allowing him to pour out those fears and nightmares that haunted him unchecked, uninterrupted, her focus both terrible and unconditional.

"When I was a boy, I can't remember what age, but I remember _Gone with the Wind_, back before I knew what horrors the world would hold for me, when I was...fresh and still...able to hope. My mother took me to see Clark Gable, big fan she was, but I remember the instant Vivian Leigh came on the screen and, Ruth, I thought, well, I thought I had never seen anything quite so beautiful, and I've been a sucker for the dark haired beauties ever since." He'd curled the corner of his mouth up, an ironic, self depreciating smile, leaning his cheek further into her hand, resting his head, eyes closed, relishing how weightless he felt in her care.

"I named her Scarlett partly because I loved my mother very much, and lost her before I really understood what loss was, so, party to remind me of her, but more to remind me that there was a time, once, a long time ago, forever it sometimes seems, that I had hope, that I could see something so beautiful and allow it to open my heart because I didn't know how _not_ to, I hadn't learned, trained myself to embrace isolation and distrust, I only knew how to love, in the purest sense. So, in a way, Scarlett reminds me I was once pure of heart and mind, I wasn't always...this way."

He had never told anybody about that day, not Rebecca Swanson, who to his youthful eyes looked enough like Vivien Leigh to love, not Daniel, his boyhood friend who eventually won her, nor Ben, his brother, closer to him than any single person that had ever meant anything to him, not Jane, a woman he had vowed to love until death's parting who gave him two children he knew next to nothing about, or any of the partners in the revolving shag-a-thon marking the early years in his career. No one. Except Ruth, in a seedy pub some forty years later, after the death of a good friend and colleague, a mentor and guide, a man who would have loved this venue, and, no doubt, would have spied them early on, hidden from the back, unraveling an extravagant background, weaving the story of their life without benefit of introduction, and this feeling is so intense, so sharp that he can imagine Clive there with them, picture him watching as Ruth quiets him with a gentle caress, his confessions, for the moment, complete.

She, taking his head in both her hands, forcing him to look her in the eye, the furrow between her brows indicative of the seriousness with which she spoke.

"Harry, I think...I know...you've done things, things which you regret, things that sit in your heart, I know it. But...you are more than what you've done, Harry. I know that, too. None of us get out with a clear conscience. My grandmother used to say a clear conscience was just a bad memory, and a life not fully lived." Eyebrow raised, smirk forming, "I think you would have liked her." Removing her hands, leaning back again, "You've just been looking in the wrong places, finding the wrong people for a safe haven. Find those, and you'll find a bit of the peace you're searching for, not all, but it's a start." Her earnestness, her belief that what she was saying was categorically true, was, to him, infectious, a curious reversal of station between them, and he felt in his bones, lighter, relieved, tranquil, his earlier baser urges abating, but his decision to pursue her intensifying.

"There are _right_ places to look?"

"Yes,"

"Where?"

"Here."

"And people?"

"Yes,"

"Who?" _Oh, God wait for it._

"Me." Blushing as she spoke, her composure a delicate balance between vulnerability and unguarded generosity, her proposition, candid, coloring his thoughts with double entendres a consequence of his nature and her guileless approach.

"What I mean to say is...that you can, you can talk to me, trust me, I would like to do that...for you, be a safe place...be that for you, when you have a need, for times like, like this." A slight shrug, gone before it was there, her mouth curved in a half smile, and he had taken her hand in between his, warm, soft, "I can assure you my level of discretion rivals Scarlett's, and I'll even promise not to chew your socks." A full grin lighting up her face, her eyes buoyant, dancing with mirth.

"Bold statement, Ruth. I've never known you to boast quite so." Smiling in return, lending the intended humor to his words. "I'll entertain your offer. There is, of course, Scarlett to consider. She is a very jealous mistress, our Scarlett, very sensitive to rejection. It will have to be handled delicately lest she make her displeasures known in unsavory ways throughout my house."

"That wouldn't do." Laughing outright, full throated, the muscles in her exposed neck moving sublimely to accommodate, her nose wrinkling in the way he found so endearing, rather a triumph if you could get her to do it.

"No, but she's sweet on me, so I think we'll have luck on our side." Winking at her, leaning back, allowing her space, the cock-up of his baser urges avoided, his achievement in releasing her from his grasp realized anew.

"Another, then?" His face, weathered, all bushy eyebrows and ravages of time, alcoholic excesses creasing his face, "Whiskey. Will it be another, then?"

"We should get back, Harry..." Mischievous, _certainly_, open to suggestion, _maybe_, and he was shocked to discover they had been gone nearly two hours, undetected, hoping that their return to the grid would leave them as equally unidentified.

They didn't rush, neither adopting a shared stride of urgency, nor one of lethargy, but somewhere in between which, by design, balanced companionship with burgeoning affection, that pace which embodied a yearning to extend time's passage, but simultaneous, a concurrent acceleration into the next moment wherein those newly discovered emotions, fondness, devotion, _passion, _could be built upon, the appetite for such fueled by eagerness and an almost tragic state of idolatry.

With the exception of Jane, he had never ventured to know a woman, really _know_ her, and he concludes that this elation, this feeling of euphoria is the result of discovery, the rush found at the end of searching, a puzzle piece uncovered and placed, the individual stamp identifying an other, your other, designed for you as you begin to see, as you begin to unveil, and taste, and crave. Not with Jane, his sight of her never materializing despite her pleas, enabling the ebulliency he feels now as they walk, side by side, the deep craving for more, the mind numbing obsession of it, absolute and irrevocable.

That evening, the weightlessness remained with him, not as acute, but enough in tangible substance that he had foregone his customary half bottle, his ritual of self medication, the application of numbing techniques unnecessary in the wake of his unexpected time spent with Ruth earlier. It does not escape his notice that his hands tremble, almost undetectable, but there, his risk of becoming ever more like his father a time worn dance he's well versed in, the steps ingrained.

She had stopped at his door, announcing her intention to head home, his head buried in reports, messages, the accumulated detritus of his two hour absence.

"Do please think about it, Harry, yes? Anytime. Really, no worries." Her smile was kind and genuine, developing and vanishing within seconds before she turned to leave.

"Thank you, Ruth. I...I will." The best he could muster, his inner dialogue continuing, _I want you to stay, I want you to sit whilst I finish up, and I want to take you to dinner, I want you to come home with me, I want to see you, I want you to see me, I want...I want you. _The void manifesting in his mind, clouding his thoughts, testing his ability to look but don't touch, quantifying his receptivity to leap into its maw, judging him passive, willing, laughing for knowing his weakness.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

"If this isn't hugely important I hope your passport's up to date..."

"Harry, it's me."

"Ruth..."

"Yes."

"What time is it?"

"Late. Look, I'm sorry to be calling you at this hour but-"

"Are you all right?"

"Me? Yes, I'm fine, thanks."

"Well, that's ahhhh...That's good."

"Harry, I was just wondering... I was just wondering if perhaps you could come over?"

"Come over? Now?"

"There's someone I need you to meet."

"...Oh."

Of course, _of course_ you daft git...what? You thought she'd just ring you up, ask you over, shag you the moment you arrived? As he drove, haphazardly, recklessly, his mind preoccupied with self recrimination, _she has offered you friendship, a shoulder to lean on, and the very first phone call from her, your cock is ready to spring from your shorts, and here's you, keen to invite her into the sexual cesspool of your overactive imagination, so much for wanting to know her, to see her, it's a pathetic tale, ego and vanity the only children worthy of an aging philanderer._

She had greeted him upon his arrival, and he sensed her agitation, her heightened nervousness within moments of entering. Her initial greeting was brief, a curt _Hey, _turning away towards the kitchen, and he finds the atmosphere uncomfortable, tangibly different from the last time he was within these walls. The pictures, the organized chaos all remained intact, but indefinably altered, tumultuous, and he found himself steeling his emotions with every step towards where she had disappeared.

Gary Hicks. _Gary Bloody Hicks._ _This_ is the man Clive trusted with the oft rumored book of secrets, Pandora's Box of Nightmares. So, it was true, then. Clive had not kept his end of the security services bargain, and in failing to do so, engendered the caliber of enemy that wouldn't waste time attempting to talk him out of going public, establishing suicide as the cause of death highly implausible, as he had initially suspected. But, Gary Hicks, this twitching, alcoholic, festering piece of humanity, this vainglorious, self engrossed _journalist_, in the loosest meaning of the term, had, in his overreaching arrogance, placed Ruth, _his Ruth_, in danger by daring to approach her, let alone break into her home in an exceedingly cavalier fashion typically characteristic of sociopaths. That he hated this man was a laughable understatement, not least as it gradually became clear that they had, at some point inconceivable to him, had some manner of relationship, _Ruthie_, setting his teeth on edge, overcome with the urge to serve him up on a platter and be done with it.

On the heels of this satisfying image, his better angels vaulted themselves violently into the fray of his present consciousness, demanding, for the sake of Clive, that he set aside his sophomoric urges towards Hicks, usurper, entitled intruder, vessel of intelligence better left hidden in the shadows. Encouraged, strengthened by the routine, the rote ritual of facing risk, he poured himself the last of Ruth's whiskey, the bottle they had shared, depleted by this braggart standing before him, chain smoking, entirely unaware of the danger he had placed them all in, he had placed _her_ in, and began the process of taking control, arranging a safe house for them, dismantling cell phones, while experiencing a brief, but thoroughly satisfying, and obscene level of pleasure in placing Gary Hicks, effectively, under house arrest, knowing, instinctively, he would chafe at restrictions, his freedom in another's hands, anticipating his impending amusement. He would enjoy watching him squirm. He told himself it was for Clive, and to a certain extent, it was. But, in the deep recesses of his true self, he couldn't ignore his sense of urgency, his evaluation of risk was informed by Ruth, his affections entangling with his loyalties towards Clive, and then his commitment to his duty, obliterating his ability to be objective, giving him a small taste of what his life would be were he to pursue and claim her as his.

She had become close to Zaf, in Danny's absence, and it was because he himself could not be at the safe house, a breach in protocol that would not go unnoticed, that he had instructed both Adam and Zaf to rotate attendance, ostensibly to guard Hicks, but, if he was honest, to ensure Ruth was never left unattended with him, never unguarded, confident that both Zaf and Adam would do what was necessary to guarantee her safety. That she and Hicks had some previous entanglement stung, his mind attempting to pinpoint what had attracted her, and yearning to understand how he had failed so spectacularly in his assumptions, never once contemplating she, too, would have ex lovers. It was true, she had never turned in a S24, and apart from the Fortescue debacle, had shown little to no inclination towards dating, courting, _hell,_ interest beyond total devotion to her job. If he were honest with himself, she had offered nothing beyond simple friendship, her generosity of spirit compelling her to compassionate acts so rare in evidence in his life he had allowed his imagination to color beyond the lines, embellishing, hearing words he wasn't sure she'd spoken, believing what he wanted to believe, not seeing her actions as definitive of her character, but as explosively yearned for expressions of fancy and affection, _him, him, him, always him._ The hypocrisy of his assessment of Hicks was not lost on him, mirrors both, suitors claiming territory.

She had been caught in the crossfire between CO19, Zaf, and as yet unidentified assailants attempting to assassinate Hicks, throwing herself over him, shielding him with her body, and he couldn't allow himself to contemplate his reaction were she to have been injured, murdered outright to ensure that Pandora's Box remained securely closed. Years of experience told him this would not be the last time she was in danger, and her proximity to Hicks served only to heighten that considerable and established risk.

Entrusting Malcolm to construct a passable duplicate manuscript, taking advantage of information gleaned from an asset of Adam's, a fortuitous bit of luck there, possibly, he, however, had fancied, Clive working the numbers, parting the clouds, demanding to be heard even after death, he'd concluded the only solution ensuring both Ruth, and Hicks' continued safety was to let it be known he was also in possession of Clive's manuscript, provided to him prior to his demise, and would have no compunction whatsoever in using it, setting fire to the lot of them, watching as they twist and turn, betray and reveal, the destruction of cleansing one's soul a spectator's sport. He had to admit, privately, that Woodring organizing the death squad over at Six had come as a shock, initially, but given the kernels of information contained within provided, reluctantly, by Hicks, he imagined it more of a shock that Woodring appeared to have acted alone, though he was hard pressed to believe Juliet had not been active within the loop of conspiracy. She was, of course, resplendent in justifications, washing herself of guilt with necessary acts, those decisions which allow the government to continue unimpeded by scandal, and, in this specific case, scrutiny. If the complacent masses only knew what acts were executed in their collective name, _for their own good, for the sanctity of the realm. _The dark void visits us all, smiling.

He had decided to place Hicks on the shelf for future use, extracting from him his word the manuscript would remain undisclosed, it's contents and truths more effective as camouflaged ravings of a terminally ill and bitter man, manipulation tools disclosed as needs must, divulged to bend the will of man to suit his wants and desires. He took no small amount of pleasure in watching as Hicks was forced to sign the Official Secrets Act, and enjoyed the opportunity to detail for him the magnitude of consequence should Hicks disregard the pledge of silence in all areas concerning Clive McTaggart, and his Pandora Box of Secrets.

"You are _never_ to approach me again. Is that clear?" Her tone was dangerously calm, deceptively soft, serene, a shiver of recognition traveling his spine, her imitation of him alarmingly spot on. Full circle, time passing, retracing the beginning, her skills developing even as he watched her slice.

"_Ruthie..._" Adopting an obsequiously cajoling attitude, attempting to appease, smooth her over, engender himself in her graces, and he squeezed his hands at his sides to avoid doing worse, indulging in the impulse to physically harm him.

"_Is that clear?"_ Each word bitten off before the next, she stared at him unflinchingly, steady, cold as ice, her breathing barely lifting her chest, her emotional state a mystery behind her impassive expression. He knew, then, in the quiet as she awaited Hicks' acquiescence that she was returning to him, discarding this past liaison, closing the door on him until she had use of a shelved asset, alining herself with MI5, with Pandora's Box, willfully immersing herself, her path chosen, her allegiance decided. His.

It was, quite literally, the sexiest thing he had ever witnessed from her to date, his list of eminently sexy things having narrowed to include only those involving Ruth some time ago, becoming an awestruck spectator, and she emanating strength from within, his desire stirring, his need to claim her primary, his hands squeezing and releasing at his sides, as she turned and calmly left the room.

It was in that moment he'd decided to share with her the truth of the manuscript, both forged and authentic, each in his possession, Clive, ever resilient, having stacked the deck, choosing to provide him with every seedy, underhanded event he had documented over his forty plus years in service. One book with enough information to topple an entire government, and awesome weapon in the wrong hands, or, for that matter, his own.

"She isn't what she seems, you know. You think you know her? Don't fool yourself, _Harry_. She discarded me before, and she's discarding me now. No remorse, no afterthought. Done, and done." Slapping his hands together, a casino card dealer making way for the next, washing his hands of the game on the table.

"Perhaps it's more likely she simply decided it was time to expunge herself of excess garbage." His tone light, disregard dripping from every word spoken.

"Ha! I'm not the only garbage needing removal in this room," eyes sharp, drilling into his own, daring him to flinch, daring him to deny.

"She'll discard you as easily, once she really sees you. You and I, we're the same, _Harry_, much as it may sicken you." Smiling, sardonic, twisting the knife with enthusiasm. "Opportunistic, manipulative bastards both of us, willing to do whatever is necessary to secure the end we demand, feel entitled to, earned by blood or trickery, doesn't matter because in the end, we're cut from the same cloth, and when she sees you, she'll make you bleed, and you will never be washed of her. I'm paid to be observant, Harry, and I've observed you, with her. It won't be long, now."

Offering a sarcastic salute in parting, "I wish you luck. You're going to need it."

He allowed Hicks the last word, his flair for the dramatic worn on his sleeve, a performer masquerading as a journalist. Sitting, the silence of the room enfolding him, he concentrated on erasing his altercation with Hicks, the fundamental truths revealed, more unpalatable due to the source, the fount of illumination, a sociopath much like himself, though clearly more at ease with that stamp of amoral tendency, ability. Was he not, in deciding to bring Ruth into his confidence, placing her in the very same level of danger as Hicks first appearing at her home? Could he truly distinguish a difference, or is the inherent hypocrisy flowing in his bloodstream, his heart coursing treachery with every thumping heartbeat, so skilled at deception, obscuring what he is, who he is in its purest fundamental form, believing the lies he tells himself?

Still entertaining the idea of taking Ruth into his confidence, vacillating between what he _should_ do versus what he _wanted_ to do, he waited until the grid was all but deserted, the two of them illuminated, she by desk lamp, he by the signature scarlet that pulsed with life in his office. He beckoned, she came, as it was, as it always seemed to be, seating herself gingerly across from him, waiting for him to begin.

"I need to share something with you. Only you." Staring at her in earnest, telegraphing his meaning, manipulating her curiosity with his eyes alone. Nodding her assent for him to continue, choosing not to speak.

"I have Clive's original manuscript. If something were...were to happen...to me...something fatal...I can't have it falling into the wrong hands. You're my Plan B, Ruth."

"Harry...surely there are better choices..." Shaking her head, her hands beginning to rise, a movement meant to ward off any continuation.

"No. You're not an active field agent, and as such, your chances for survival increase exponentially. I have to chose someone who will, well, to be blunt...who possesses the highest chance of survival. It's critical that whomever I chose will out live me. Simple as that." Internally coaching himself, clinical, suitably removed, emotions dampened, _you must be as a surgeon's scalpel, quick and without indecision. _

Staring at him, eyes wide with shock, mumbling something he didn't catch but which sounded like _not so simple._

"There will come a time when you will be required to make this same choice. I won't be there to guide you, but I trust that you will decide as necessary. You will chose well, I have great faith in that." Tilting his head, watching her as she began to synthesize his words, breaking them down in her mind, full sentences into smaller components, accommodating their presence, reconciling meaning, conforming to duty, succumbing to his spoken need. The steps of her distillation flickering across her face, her expressions like that of a slide show, each revealing more than before, each a bread crumb of thought, there for the taking, the trail into the mystery of her mind.

_She will make you bleed._

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Looking back now, the number of secrets he has shared with her, the things she knows presently that will outlive him through her, are numerous, insidious plagues all, establishing her as the vessel by which he ensures his legacy, in some sense, his immortality bought the moment of his death, and then hers through another, rather like a child carrying the genetic stamp of familial lines into adulthood, the species surviving generations, tied by blood, and vows, and oaths, time retracing the beginning, full circle. There was a tragic beauty in the memory, the first metaphorical conception between them, their immortal union secured, done, and done. A life created from another death, a vow bestowed in the face of treachery and betrayal, an affection born of awe and recognition, a warning issued, beware, old man, it won't be long now, the vanquished departing the field.

_She will make you bleed._

His melancholic, despondent heart welcomed it, the little death, the rapturous defeat.

_I see you, Ruth._

_See me, and let me bleed._

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

**A/N: I'm going on vacation, off the grid, and will be enjoying numerous elaborately garnished cocktails brought to me by men wearing khaki shorts, swimming, over eating, and indulging in very bad decisions the likes of which would make a Roman Emperor blush, with not one single computer in sight. I will resume G&M upon my return, and hope that y'all will accommodate this delay, while anticipating the next installment. Be Well!**


	7. Chapter 7

_"__Hey now, all you sinners_

_Put your lights on, put your lights on_

_Hey now, all you lovers_

_Put your lights on, put your lights on_

_Hey now, all you killers_

_Put your lights on, put your lights on_

_Hey now, all you children_

_Leave your lights on, you better leave your lights on_

_Cause there's a monster living under my bed_

_Whispering in my ear_

_There's an angel, with a hand on my head_

_She say I've got nothing to fear_

_There's a darkness deep in my soul_

_I still got a purpose to serve_

_So let your light shine, into my hole_

_God, don't let me lose my nerve"_

*Santana, Put Your Lights On*

_"__Jesus is risen, it's no surprise_

_Even he would martyr his mama to ride to hell between those thighs_

_The pressure is building at the base of my spine_

_If I gotta sin to see her again then I'm gonna lie, lie, lie"_

*Pucifier, Rev 22:20*

_"__Whatever trepidation you may feel_

_In your heart, you know it's not real_

_In a moment of clarity_

_Summon an act of charity_

_You gotta pull me out of this mud_

_Sweet baby, I need fresh blood"_

_*The Eels, Fresh Blood*_

**_XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX_**

Fiona's death was devastating, not least as it came at the hands of a sleeping ghost from whom she hadn't known she needed to guard herself, believing she knew her enemy, discovering, too late, he wore a different, yet familiar, face. She had requested the op involving the Syrians, _I want this_, she had said, the countdown initiated, her past revealing to claim her, time folding over time, its chronic inevitability, a merciless insomniac, its need to reassert, revisit, reclaim, propelling the past into the present, an individual specter for the foolish amongst us who believe the lies, melodic to the ears, _the past is gone_. But, the past waits, clenched and hidden, patient, to expose your soul, reveal your perversions, demand your self examination, ticking down indifferently as you swallow yourself whole. The past, a momentary measurement of time, an hourglass once turned, would turn again, and again, an exercise in redundancy. He was not unfamiliar, he was not a foolish man, the ghosts of his past habitually dance about him, taunting, restless, peeling his skin back, allowing access to crawl inside, tearing themselves through him, needing entertainment, never sated. Fiona had been asked to dance, given her hand, and the past bled her on an abandoned tarmac, spent, and he wondered if she felt some sense of relief in the moment, that acute relief born of weariness and struggle's end, when you know, _know in your bones_, the inevitable has arrived, your wait extinguished as a flame, your portion of sand exhausted, had she welcomed it as one would an absent lover newly returned to be held again? It was, from time to time, the very nightmare that interrupted his waking hours, the seeping anxiety forming the core of his sleepless nights, their frequency had become, over the years, perpetual, commensurate with each additional ghost, their numbers ever climbing.

Adam, riddled with grief yet incapable of expressing it, expunging it from his heart, began a flat spin he worried he would not have the strength to recover from. He had, as necessity demanded, sidelined Adam to surveillance of Hugo Ross, recently released communist of the old cloth, a cold war comrade deemed harmless, but only just so. Restless, prowling the periphery, Adam had made his dissatisfaction known, vehemently, denying he was off balance, suffering, streaking fast as the shadows pursued him, enclosed around him as he constructed lies for himself to eat. The sustenance of death, the stages of courses served, unpalatable, spoiled, the detritus of emotions. He'd ordered him to TRING, decommissioning him briefly, denying him any choice, leaving him little option. He knew Adam considered his decision a betrayal, and it wasn't that he didn't understand his pain, but that he understood it far too well, reticent to watch him dance along the precipice, refusing to remain a spectator while he methodically imploded from loss, and grief, and rage. In exiling Adam, he had removed the warning Fiona's death foretold, the persistent reminder floating about the corners for those who dare to share their lives with the security services, a marriage made of serial monogamy, her expectations unwilling to suffer another placed before her, unwilling to wear the stain of mistress, lethal, inevitable, a warning, and pledge, of pain. Clive had died, alone, pouring out his bitterness page by page, and the service that was his marriage, his union, continued forward, without a backward glance at the man who was once devoted, a forgotten carcass to join those who had fallen before him, and he thinks it quite possible the service simply mirrors the soullessness of its breathing components, the consequences delivered indiscriminately and without mercy.

Fiona's death had shaken him, reawakened fears he hadn't felt since his children were born, igniting a paternal instinct best left inert, the self absorbed instinct of solitude, the single, deeply engrained survival technique, a required skill, learned as you drop to your knees and observe the carnage, time's passage marked by names of people lost rather than year, an obscene birthday to mourn. Danny, Clive, and Fiona all ether, all courting the inevitable, all provoking their conclusions, each an individual omen beseeching he distance himself, keep himself to the solitude, the shadows, forbidding the indulgence of a mistress, a mate, of Ruth. Human kind, the most exquisite example of dust, but equally insubstantial, ephemeral in the end, returning to the dirt that first bore us, each hourglass finally at rest.His expanding list of enemies is long, littering his past, significantly more flushed, ripe and bursting than had Fiona, yet she is gone, and he remained, waiting, his hourglass not yet diminished, but ever turning on itself, replenished even as it drains away.

He knew he was courting, exactly as they had, provoking his dance, his demon suitors hidden in the great hall of his life, his eyes on Ruth, his heart screaming _yes_, his conscience battling to reaffirm self restraint, self control, his soul reaching for his twin, his inherent malignancies metastasizing, polluting, willing him to take her into the dance with him, courting her death with every movement closer to her, the eyes surrounding them ever watchful, his craving for her acute, palpable, his determination to deny fallible, a weakness identified and recorded, his vulnerable Achilles heal had a name, _God help him. _

_They see her._

_Harry, I need you to trust me, there is something wrong, _she had pled, and he had trusted her, not without conditions, threats of her immediate return to GCHQ, but enough to learn not to question her intuitions again. His were empty threats, made all the more hollow as he remembered how she had flinched as the fatal shot took Danny, her intuitions pinging again for Fiona, knowing in her bones something was wrong without ability to identify, and he reluctant to hear her, trust her, submit to her higher intuitions, concede control. She had, perhaps with malice towards him, though he preferred to think not, covertly defied him, leaked information to Adam, vital intelligence he had deliberately denied him in his banishment, meeting with him, clandestine, her empathy, her instinctual urge to soothe driving her to breach protocol, risk exposure, her loyalties a multifaceted betrayer within her. She had judged correctly, he had to admit, that Adam needed to be in the action, distracted despite his grief, or maybe because of it, the rush of an operation so engrained, so fundamental that to deny him further would be a slow suffocation, a life force dimming, a deliberate impediment to his ability to heal and carry on. The caveat, her winning card delivered without ostentation, _We need to think about Wes...What's best for him, Harry_, and he could not offer a rebuttal, weary at the continued effort, collapsing in the face of her argument. She was right, an occurrence more frequent than not, Adam's resiliency, his ability to see the hidden skills in another, and to act on them, which brought a jeopardized Korsakov operation to a successful conclusion, if one could qualify additional taxes leveed successful, or a once keen mind snuffed out, never to be returned, agreeable. That she was fast becoming the voice in his head, appealing to his conscience, was a daily foregone conclusion, providing a welcome respite from the constant recriminations, the gift of hindsight which allowed prevention rather than triage.

It was during an impromptu meeting with Juliet, the kind in which you evaluate the consequences of what you have done, realizing, despite your efforts, you have succeeded in trading the devil you don't know, for the one that you do, that he had allowed his thoughts to wander to Ruth, no doubt prompted by Juliet's not so subtle hints that she would welcome his return to her bed. He remembered being struck by the feeling of revulsion, literally, his skin as she caressed it shrank away from her touch, cold and venomous. He had not rebuked her in the past, his marriage, his wife, his children posing no encumbrance to the satisfaction found between her willing thighs, and he pondered what it meant that he had been repulsed then, unmarried, lonely, as absolutely available on paper, as unavailable in his mind, and heart, his hourglass at the exact moment of time marked as equidistance, turn back or face forward, the choice entirely his.

He could have, within a few short moments, delved deep into the past and chose Juliet, vicious, heartless, a viper of the first order, and, truth told, a fantastic fuck, or move into the future towards Ruth, towards something he'd dared not hope to possess, but feared he'd be granted the opportunity, knowing it was unearned, purloined from the mists, not rightfully his to grasp and enjoy, his demons observing from the shadows as they danced. He had, he realized, experienced what should have occurred in Paris, in Berlin, an unwillingness to betray Ruth with another, his vow to abstain, though silent, his unspoken secret to keep alone, both powerful and stupefying, the guilt of having misled Jane so casually burning through him, the truth that she never stood a chance, sharp as it had sliced violently through his conscience.

Is this what so many have sought to describe on paper, reams of parchment dedicated to the detailed dissection of emotions, the swirling confusion and despair, the craving and obsession that occurs with another, for another, the overwhelming urge to crawl inside another, nestle in their warmth, deep, a heartbeat pulsing rhythmic verse into your ear, familiar, tasting it in your mouth, breathing it into the deepest depths of your lungs, consuming you even as you yearn to be devoured? _Love, love, careless, love. _He'd had no idea the magnitude, that damaged and destructive boy, no possible way to conceive the potency, weight, the dominion demanding you relinquish mastery. He'd no idea, then, the extent to which he would find himself willing to submit, begging the right, yearning to bleed. But he knew now, after the Khurvin fiasco with the cousins, after Juliet suspended him, after her forced absence from his daily routine became debilitating, clamorous as a church bell thundering ceaselessly between his ears.

"You're out, Harry." Simple, succinct, Juliet had suspended him, assuming his mantle simultaneously, one fell swoop, disposing of him as one would spoiled milk, swirling the drain, thinning as it disappeared, foul smell fading, never was. He spoke not a single word as he was escorted from the grid, humiliated, his eyes resting on his team, his surrogate family, each in turn, a silent audience his witness, finally landing on Ruth, searching for reassurance as much as wanting to bestow the same. A fickle cupid, Death would not, as had been customary, bring them together, trade their fledgling life together for others lost, mark another moment in his memory as fated, destined, another tentative step into the dark void. Two dead agents, Khurvin done a runner at large, the cousins the festering ooze within the wound of his cataclysmic and hasty miscalculation of risk all down, if he were honest, to his vanity, his overreaching sense of territory egregiously invaded, his frustration at having to sit and roll over, the proper domesticated pet born of their burgeoning _special relationship_, their political willingness to subjugate themselves to the enlightenment of those military pea-tree dishes across the pond. Ironic that the operation with which Juliet had attempted to blackmail him drew its genetic inception from those very same think tanks, and it is not lost on him that his residual distaste and hidden shame compromised his decision, an irritated ulcer, acidic, corrosive, never dissipating, but inflamed with every _extradition_ of British citizen.

There was an Alex Roscoe then, and an Alex Roscoe now, same interchangeable faced zealot, a closet xenophobe seeing terrorist in every face which doesn't resemble his own, creating wars based on fear, misinformation, and the overreaching power of the American Military Industrial Complex. War, its inception or prevention, was, and is, big business, and we the little sister waiting for our allowance for completing our portion of chores, just as we waited then to be invited to join the grown up table. Not for the first time does he consider he has become obsolete, incapable of accurately identifying the enemy from without, or within, the edges greying to become indistinguishable, motivations having morphed into vague and obtuse ideologies whose boundaries continue to realign, fostered onto an unsuspecting and passive mass of humanity ready to eat their share, and ask for more. These are the bitter thoughts, the redundant and self depreciating inner dialogue which formed the hallmark of his suspension, his exile to the periphery, and he thinks he understood how Adam felt, shuffled to the periphery after Fiona's death, his home no longer a home, his playground shuttered _for his own good_ by those who thought they understood, but overreached in the assumption. But Ruth understood, had known Adam needed the hunt to heal, the focus of an operation to salve his pain, allow him to grieve as was necessary, as he determined for himself, for Wes. Autonomy tempered with human connection, a delicate balance, and Ruth alone had known it, pled in his absence, argued her opinion, quietly relentless, demanded he reexamine his position, cajoled him to give way, her loyalties divided, yet impenetrable. And he had succumbed, had seen the wisdom found within the chaos.

Through back channels, Adam had, within hours of his forced departure, sought to keep him firmly in the loop, not contented to watch him become an malcontented spectator in his own professional destruction, a decision he, in his arrogance, had not likewise allowed Adam, were it not for Ruth, and he experienced a realization so deeply humbling that he thinks, not for the last time, his innate insolence is a weakness so debilitating he does not deserve the loyalty he has engendered in those that serve with him, for him, having taken it for granted, his lack of appreciation staggering. Two months worth of intelligence missing from the Khurvin file, Fist of Islam associations, CIA suddenly keen to provide information after the fact, all resplendent with the stench of manufactured intelligence reminiscent of operations past, and despite his understanding of his own fecund conceit, he remained, as always with Americans, suspect of their motivations, disdainful of their assurances, seeing his own prolific hubris mirrored with every clandestine communication with Adam.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

"She's worried about you..."

"Sweet," chuckling, a meager attempt to hide how much her concern affected him, comforting, thrilling, fearsome and terrible, his heart thundering in response to the mention of her. She had provided all that he needed, and then some, an autobiography of George S. Patton, sandwiched between kibble and a fresh bottle of scotch, and it took him the better part of an hour to decipher the message she had hidden within its voluminous pages, _Sustenance in my temporary absence as safe harbor, the socks are a failsafe. The front lines miss you, xxR. _

"The food she sent was more than enough." He had deliberately concentrated on the racing form, judging by a calculated, furtive glance Adam had gleaned enough from the exchange to put rest any doubt that the undercurrent between he and Ruth was not imagined, loathe to provide any additional confirmation, he focused, instead, on concealing his smile, an effort he was not surprised required a torturous amount of effort. He had, despite his internal vow to avoid such, grown to regard Adam as a friend, his concern for his emotional welfare beyond that of an indifferent supervisor, his instinct telling him the hollow, vacant look in his eyes spoke volumes, the depths of his turmoil, his loss, his existence rudderless, lacking tether and some substantial measure of balance, terror redefined within, the ocean riotous and eroding, the end once attached to Fiona, severed, trailing behind him, the ripples thus formed blending with an ocean made of regrets and should haves.

"It feels as though something is broken that can never be fixed." The pain etched on his face, the raw vulnerability, his effort to conceal it clumsy and half hearted, an action obvious in its predictability, those that mourn determined to relieve well wishers, doctoring the spectators, even as they bleed internally, comforting those who haven't felt the depth of loss as a participant, uncomfortable with the emotional expressions both felt and received. He remembers, then, Ben, and his mother before him, the pain, an internal, flowing river, churning the silt of memories and guilt, rage and helpless frustration, and he so young, abandoned to mourn without appearing so, the mortar just beginning to form his protective shell, the layers of isolation only beginning to construct, seams fusing, refolding, reshaping the form and foundations of his soul and heart, pulsing with purpose and horrific efficiency, the makings of an effortless future spy.

"And the grid?" Walking towards the stables, the distance between them and his assigned handlers a brief respite from the listening devices, his fleeting moment to engage in conversation forbidden, the details forming a verbal contraband, unauthorized, an act of treason in the offing, the addictive adrenaline coursing within him, waking the slumbering agent inside, Mr. Shadow swaggering center stage, body humming with anticipation.

"Tense, as you might expect. Juliet is...Her style is...She's been behind a desk for too long, obsolete, in a word," pausing, narrowing his eyes as he watched to dogs streak past. "Jo is finding it...difficult to...reconcile...she's...," searching for the word, walking a minefield.

"Young. Very young." He had supplied after a time, after Adam had failed to continue, his eyes staring into the middle distance, an unseeing, blank gaze indicative of guilt to his trained eye, shared by him, if he were honest, acknowledging his part, her current profession at odds with the altruistic motivations of journalists, observers all, inferring meaning, alluding to truths, a few noble ones out there to be certain, she likely to have joined the ever diminishing ranks were it not for Adam, manipulating, suggesting MI5 was essentially the same, but a better playground, appealing to her instinct, her desire to uncover truths and protect those that need protection from those lurking in the shadows amongst us, unseen.

"It is one thing to play at observant bystander, toss a phone into a criminal's car...Quite another to witness two fellow agents cut down moments after you've spoken. The things she's seen only proves it the rule, sadly, not the exception." He had wanted to add she'll toughen up, but refrained down to the shared shame of it, he and Adam, the reality that something innocent and fresh should be churned, reformed, made harder, the forced extraction of vitality the service demands, the burning spark that once identified her as one of the masses, anonymous, replaced by someone who looks a little like her, but wears her bitterness and cynicism as a shield, desperate to protect the soft underbelly, the need to retain such paramount, a crucial necessity to remaining human, remaining true to the cause, monstrous and horrifying in its frequency of occurrence.

Malcolm had been right, it seems, that his need for her, his Ruth, will lead, inexorably, to her death, her unsuspecting soul, her exquisite spark, her burning vitality the trifecta of sacrifice, the empty and pitiless hull left remaining a shadow of her once brilliant promise, curled into herself, beyond reach, protective of what is left of her empathy, her humanity, his Ruth, his twilight touchstone, beyond grasp or rescue. Vicious his heart, as it battered against conscience, his vehement silent vows to protect her, his furious desperation to deny the inevitability of past sins becoming prologue, the nature of his willingness to swallow the lies he'd constructed, embellished, treasured, fierce in their voracity, flagrant in their alignment with the void, serenading him, rotten, corrupting, _he must release her, he must have her. _

"She's butted heads with Ruth." Adam had turned to look at him, gauging his reaction, like Sam before him, quick and efficient, and he realized after a moment he had continued on the topic of Juliet. "Colin, too. She no longer understands the nature of the beast. Seems to possess an uncanny ability to alienate those most likely to help her, a little too friendly with the cousins...A perfect politician, getting in the way, obfuscating, manipulating, self important..." His handlers had turned the corner, within listening distance, and he smiled as he imagined Juliet's face as she read the worthless transcripts, as she attempted to reprimand Adam for nothing beyond a conversation between friends, attempted to establish domination over those who refused to submit entirely, as he blew the whistle and the dogs began to play their part, bit actors of instinct, background cacophony used to obfuscate and disrupt, old school trade craft, that.

"I need the entire file we have on Khurvin."

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

She was on the top floor, reading, and as he approached the seat behind her, he was astonished that he could still be stunned by his physical reaction, the thrumming pulse, the flush spreading across his chest, the satisfaction, the instant sense of calm her proximity drew from him, his body responding as in sickness responding to cure, his affection an unwanted and deleterious illness, reaching, and he without words, immobile, gazing at his weakness, touching her with his eyes, the gaping maw of the void opening wider to accommodate them both, her hair blowing softly, unaware. It struck him, then, the darker consequences of his misjudgment, the gratuitous refrain of becoming obsolete in the new terror age paling to the unfathomable measure of her daily absence, a correlating necessity he was, _had_, attempted to resign himself to with his decision to resign after Shining Dawn. He sent a silent, earnest, thank you to Adam, for choosing Ruth as the means by which to pass the Khurvin file, even as he damned them both for dragging her ever deeper into the muck and grime of treason for the greater good, for Queen and Country, the maw salivating, smelling fresh blood, appetite triggered and insatiable, his heart, nevertheless, engorged with affection, mutated, requiring she become sullied, infected, and he her single remaining cure, helpless in his inability to rein himself, his nature alive, the rush all consuming, the antithesis of rationality, control, restraint.

"Nice night out..." Breathy, rushed, hesitant, his chest constricting as the words were formed and quietly spoken.

"I thought you were some weirdo." Turning her head, her profile, resuming the page, Mona Lisa smile playing about her lips, the just visible corner provoking his natural instinct to pounce, claim, tear apart and consume whole.

"I may not be your boss anymore, Ruth, but there's no need to be insulting." Delighted, she's making it easy, deliciously teasing in her presence, undermining the danger of this moment, smirking in the face of it, eyes still on the page, though no longer understanding the words, her movements reciprocal with his, the need to extend time or freeze it, the sand dropping granules, becoming the past even in the brief moments comprising their present, slipping, indifferently, both grasping to hold on, to extend, to fortify.

"How did you know I would be here?" Attuned, knowing she can't overtly acknowledge him, the chance of being observed stirring something deep and primal within him, the lurid details of voyeurism, tantalizing and seductive, and he very nearly eases forward, closer, his affinity for taboo coloring his wants and needs, desiring to see her face, her eyes, to see himself reflected there as worthy of this risk, to bathe in her forgiveness for all that he has asked for, all he has yet to require, yearning to breathe her scent, watch the pulse as it quickens at her neck, matching his own, ever closer to undone as he imagined placing his lips on her, again, forbidden in the extreme, the tether weaving around them, serpentine, deadly.

"A couple of months ago I passed you standing at the bus stop in the pouring rain, shortly after EERE. I was being driven home, and to my eternal shame...and now regret...I didn't stop." Lightheaded, his words of confession driven by a source unknown to him, beyond his ability to stop, the feeling of peace enveloping, demanding he divulge more, demanding he confess it all, flayed open, the specter of Death reemerging, a poisonous Cyrano, demanding he recollect the first moment he thought to take advantage of her, playing at Apocalyptic destruction, the moments subsequent flush with the taste of fatalities, his tether to her flourishing despite the morbid and decomposing corpses littering their dance floor, the void needing more, and more, and yet still more. And still she smiles, serene, tranquil, as the granules drop, the hourglass marking time overlapping, the past is present, the present is past, all irretrievably slipping away.

"That's fine. I like the bus. Save your regrets and shame for another day, another time, you've...You've already made it up to me, you've shown me what I needed to know, what I already knew." Closing her book, her profile reflecting the passing lights, alighting and playful on the smooth surface of her skin.

"You asked me once, after Danny, to stay...with you. I felt you, then. I felt you surround me, safe, allowing me to breathe, the breadth of your generosity, your goodness, it warmed me. Until then, I...I felt...adrift, in my whole life...until you reached inside, pulled me back where I needed to be...where I wanted to be...with you, alive after so long, waiting. I thought...thought I would never...that it wasn't meant for me, not me...But, I see you, Harry, all that you try to hide and protect from the rest, always have done. It can't be undone...you...You and me." Unfolding herself, feline in calculated movement, cautious, sublime, the breeze unveiling the back of her neck as she moved, his eyes then drawn to each exposed nub of bone, displayed, vulnerable, so easily snapped by callous and careless hands, delicate as a bird's, the hair at her nape caressing, lifting, settling back, the ethereal down of her body, goading him unmercifully, her words tunneling their way into his subconscious, _I see you, Harry._

_She will see you, and make you bleed._

"I have something for you..."

So it began, the bloodletting, her words tearing at him, drawing blood, pooling as he clenched his fists, willing himself not to act, not to destroy her with a conscious step forward. Better to be unconscious, better to lay down, allow death to take him gently into its arms, lulling him with whispered words of comfort and solitude, his life's blood draining, his infection spilling from him, and she untainted, denied entrance, barred from advancing further, for her own good, breathing his last, a terrible kindness she cannot fathom, the shadow she will become obscene, yet to be evaded, waiting, as she waited, the gift he offers, meant for her even as it will rot her from within.

He watched as she had extended her arm along the back of her seat, her hand curled protectively around the contraband drive, slow motion to his eye, her movements fluid, sounds from the open window, the life pulsing around them diminished to his ear, his focus entirely concentrated on her hand, an invitation to touch her under the guise of trade craft, an intellectual exchange through deliberate physical connection, and he had reached towards her without restraint, disregarding his inner alarm bells, his urge to place his hands on her intense and powerful, vital. The feeling was like that of mistakenly touching an exposed, live wire, the jolt beginning in his fingertips was dangerously pleasurable, instantaneous, the intensity abating only slightly as it wound its way up his arm, the warmth created carried with it, his fingertips caressed the inside of her hand, the curve formed, her fingers instinctively flexing briefly, enclosed around his again, after the exchange, her thumb and forefinger grasped him tighter as he drew his hand away, staring at the purloined drive, flipping it around, stunned that he had not dropped it, his hand numb, cold, and he was forced to flex it, reestablish dominance and control as he slipped it into his coat pocket to rest securely against his heart.

"Thanks," he had whispered, as he seemed to watch himself teeter on the precipice, the void calling, his nature demanding, his conscience warring valiantly against the powerful onslaught, unable to look at her further, her profile only slightly less affecting than were she to turn full and face him, a precarious act both fearsome and desired, he continued to look down, feeling her anticipation as she awaited his next move, the weight of her words heavy between them.

"Keep an eye on Adam for me. He's-" And it was done, in an instant, the connection severed, her arm drawn back, enfolding into herself, her face shuttered in seconds, her smile vanished, replaced by indifference, deadening to him, her eyes hurt, her movements suddenly wooden, foreign and unfamiliar. It had to be done, he told himself, using Adam as a wedge, that immovable object thrust effortlessly between them, whose mention was calculated, designed to jar them both back into a state of imbalance, curiously controllable, whereas the previous fluid and natural exchange was perilously uncontrollable, fraught with hazards, his unspoken lusts and wants, her spoken admissions and invitations, land-mines each waiting for them to submit, stumble, explosions once triggered, cannot be undone, she and I, skirting ever closer.

_I see you, Harry._

_It can't be undone...You and me._

He knows now, as he knew then, she was correct, her intuitive understanding of them, of things unseen, a unit formed without premeditation, a union consummated time and again in his darkest fantasies, forged on a foundation of traumas and secrets, yearning and recognition, each granule of sand providing fortification, each stolen, clandestine moment between them consolidating one into the other, forming the buttress against which they both breathe together, in time, the syncopation of utterly devastating devotion, it could not be undone. He had watched her then, as she turned herself from him, physically closing inward before his eyes, and experienced a crippling fear, yet found, intertwined within, an emotion he could only identify as rapture, deliciously languid and tender, the urge to strike out tempered by the primal urge to touch, caress, to draw from her contentment, to thrust her into a state of ecstasy, the euphoria and despair of reverence, his will prostrate, she unwilling in her deification. She had, he understood, become necessary to him in much the same way religion salved the masses, dutifully attending, genuflecting, regurgitating verse, pledging fealty to an entity who wears numerous names, unseen, unknown, attempting to explain the unexplainable, to make sense of the senseless, the overriding need to belong to something, _someone_, that longing to be whole. Is it at all surprising, then, that spies often feel godlike, embrued with gifts of knowledge, sight into the unrevealed depths of human existence, omniscient, omnipotent, wearing their legends, deciding who lives, who dies, allowed opportunity better left to the Gods, indifferently balancing the scales, humankind an infantile plaything, genocidal and benevolent in equal measure.

"Thank you...," leaning into her ear, her hair ticking his nose, he'd rushed to make his exit without delay, his hands thrust deeply into his pockets to prevent him from grasping her shoulders, shaking her, denying that their was an _us_, forcing her to look him in the eye as he refused to play her other, deliberately twisting her confession to suit his needs, crushing her to save her, you are not safe with me, the goodness you see is a lie, a carefully constructed fallacy, decoration hiding a multitude of sins and perversions, _you do not see me_. The physical absence of her, the nothingness that remained, was nothing like he'd ever experienced, that imaginary phantom limb that aches though severed from the body, a dulling reminder of what once was, what was supposed to have been, invisible, yet excruciatingly present.

He had never felt this way with Jane, never with Juliet, nor Elena, his absence or presence within their lives indiscriminate, illicit, but never physically debilitating as with Ruth. He had loved, in a fashion, all three, but it was with the heart of a feckless, philandering, foolish boy with no understanding of consequences, no ability to grasp that he couldn't manipulate indefinitely, all the warnings rushing, one behind the other, through his mind then, as he stood alone, the words from those who were no longer present demanding acknowledgement, _you will regret, you will understand what you cannot now, you will not always be who you are, and what you will become will regret who you have been, the ghosts do not sleep, and the past will rise to meet you, eye to eye, demanding accountability, insomnia your curse and penance._

But he understood now, in full measure, the depth of his unspoken commitment to her as he watched the lights of the bus that carried her away from him fade in the distance. He relished the warmth as it swelled within him, his acceptance that it was beyond infatuation, adoration, his attachments of the past forming a sophomoric picture of selfish desires, childish and lacking in depth by comparison. It was love, this overwhelming drive to be with her, a part of her, a primal thirst unquenched, her physical absence from his eyes and body a torture unlike any he had known, the delicate dance they had embarked on unexpected, uncontrollable, yet the steps familiar, reciprocated by each in turn, mirrors both, drawn inexorably into the arms and heart of the other, thrumming together, reunited over time, the granules remain the same, again, again, and again.

Had he not recognized her from the first? Felt the previous absence of her, keen, exacting, in the midst of her interview, even as he delayed its conclusion for want of remaining near her? Had something inside him not reached for her before he'd had time to consciously examine his urges, his will instinctively acquiescing without considering the consequence? Had he not known her instantly, every moment thereafter revealing what was already present, waiting, as she had waited, for the gradual unveiling? Had the universe not conspired to join their paths by any means necessary, a destined alliance, a formidable and fated union, each powerless to prevent it?

The mists had gathered around him, blanketing him in late evening dew characteristic of London, each inanimate object glowing about him, the natural halos of light soft and welcoming, and he embraced the beauty he found anew, his eyes capturing what he had so often overlooked, his ability as a boy diminishing as he hardened into a man, the simplicity and truth, allowing himself to see and be seen, the barricades, years of deliberate, erected fortifications surrounding his soul, crumbling, the slow erosion of sand against an ocean of time. Several minutes had passed as he had walked casually, one of the nameless masses for a time, reflecting on the turmoil, the seductive conundrum he stood in the midst of, his stomach a mass of fluttering wings, his instinct to run full tilt at the forefront, his soul urging him to breathe evenly in the face of it, and the hair at the back of his neck rising to attention, his innate skill locating within him that eternal well of experience that spoke to being observed, shed of defenses, perceiving in the shadowy reaches of his consciousness his carelessness, thrust violently into the present, the prickling surface of his skin acknowledging unidentified spooks spying on the master, himself, the maverick, his natural habitat compromised for want of a woman, his thoughts belaying his considerable skills of subterfuge, leaving him raw and exposed.

A single cursory glance was all it took to identify the men Juliet had assigned to his watch, young pups tailing an old, cold war dog, self confidence evident even in the dim and hazy light, their youthful arrogance worn about them, singling them out as would a beacon cutting a path through the fog, it was nothing to evade them, though something altogether different to convince himself they were unaware of the treasonous intelligence exchange with Ruth. Catching her unawares on a bus, in the midst of London, was a foolish, indulgent stroke, leaving her exposed. Better to have hidden within her home, surrounded by her familiar comforts, coiled and waiting as would a snake, but for the niggling certainty that he discover himself loathe to leave her, his necessary return to his own home an amputation he would have abhorred deeply. The lesser of two evils chosen, the immediacy of resolution and reinstatement became paramount, the intelligence gleaned, purloined, examined, _we are missing something_.

Two days hence, all was revealed, the CIA satisfyingly put in their proper place, _for the moment_, one of their own fettered out, exposed and squirming under Juliet's merciless gaze, and he reinstated, as eager to return to the grid, reclaim his territory as much as reestablish dominion, godlike, omniscient, the old dog whose bite remains lethal to those who assume otherwise. He stepped through the pods, the early morning hour irrelevant to him, his purpose fundamental to his makeup, he and the grid having become one in the same with the passage of time, his tenure outlasting those before him, an intricate combination of cold war stealth and new terrorism technology proving formidable, perhaps his greatest achievement, and, yet, his habitual state of solitude, loneliness, was the first that struck him, reflected by the dimmed lights, the absence of people at that hour.

The shadows more pronounced, the silence ever more deafening, the questions forming, is _this_ worth the cost, have those sacrificed become a meaningless, burning effigy, or do they maintain some measure of substance in their sudden, combined absence? Where once service to one's country was enough, despicable acts and deeds committed in the name of Queen and realm, easily justified to those whose morality was ambiguous, at best, manipulated by ideology at worst, and where did he presently fall, did it remain _enough_?

_Enough_, a word lacking definable boundaries, individual as a fingerprint, the ingredients an ever changing combination of needs, wants, desires, and lusts, once attained, discarded in search of more of the same, believing once conquered, only peace remained, a word he could not define for his ex-wife, for himself, his children, lovers, a word whose power over him was as immeasurable as unfulfilled. Indeed, he had enjoyed his opportunity to play at field agent, tapping into skills left dormant and buried, superfluous behind a desk, the rush of adrenaline familiar, comforting, the chase and evasions, clandestine meetings, the unveiling of intelligence, the intricate steps of living the life of an active spy retraced, for a fleeting week, all fading as his eyes discovered her, his blood coursing with adrenaline of another sort. And the answer resolving, forming on his lips, whispered to himself, _No, it was no longer enough_. His hourglass at equidistance, marking the middle of this present revolution, and he, almost without conscience, chooses the future, even as his past gains ground, specters floating, yearning for corporeal venue, demanding their moments of vengeance. _No, not enough_. _Never enough, yet more than he deserved. _

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

"It's good to have you back." Her smile was bright, welcoming, soothing as a fire provides heat, thawing what was once frozen solid.

"It's good to be back." A difficult admission, albeit entirely true, not least as he had long since come to accept the grid as his home, his place in the world defined, secure, balanced scales reestablished, the loneliness of having no alternative heavy in his heart and mind. His secrets and regrets, the weight, his alone, his doing, painstakingly constructed, his self imposed crucible in which to simmer, unattended. _No, not nearly enough_.

"I better get up to speed. Lots of files to read. Wouldn't want to miss anything." Speaking without thinking, by rote and routine, distancing himself, avoiding her eyes which tugged at his conscience, questioning, _are we all right, did we share something, in what direction are we to move, forward, back, not at all?_

_Do we still see each other?_

"Don't work too late." Turning from her, the questions remained unanswered, adrift between them, his wont to reclaim control primary, his need for the discipline of oft traveled paths, his familiar desk, the accouterments of false bravado and self control contained within the scarlet walls of his office, his chosen sanctuary from a myriad of storms.

"I'll get the last bus..." It had stopped his progression cold, rifling through him, her last olive branch offered, and he the intended recipient, the light of her desk lamp illuminating her, the offhand comment, the subtle shrug of her thin shoulder belying the vulnerability clear on her face, touching the surface of something shared between them, confessions spoken and heard, regret and shame, his smile bestowed, the grimace beneath barely hidden.

Feeling the office breathe around him, drawing strength as he reacclimatized, moved items about his desk, distracted himself from her, feeling her eyes on him, longing for her to join him, dreading his actions should she chose to do so, despite his cold reception of her attentions, his uncontrollable need to maintain distance undermined at every opportunity by his baser nature, lusts and wants, and this hollow emptiness within him, gorging itself on his continued denial, once comfortable, the calm of conditions expected and mundane, forced into upheaval, requiring, without effort or restraint, closer examination, introspection, acknowledgment, _God help him, no, none of it would never be enough again, but a lie, within a series of lies, he could no longer feast upon. _

He had watched her, then, as he loved her, in secret, in the dark, nestled her to his heart, the direction fathomed, their dance the initial steps, the last ingredient of enough.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

"I'm off out, then." He sees her breath catch, her hesitation to leave clear though she has not yet breached the threshold of his office, hovering at the entrance, her eyes clear, bearing just a hint of an earlier proffered invitation, her hand coming to rest on the doorframe, and his mind relives what it felt like to caress the inside of her palm, the warmth and softness barely measured by his fingertips.

"I should thank you for the care package...It was very...thoughtful...," leaning back as he turned his chair towards her. She glanced down, her innocuous _hummm,_ muffled, the slight shrug of her narrow shoulders, the curl at the corner of her mouth brief, disappearing before they were truly present.

"I worried you wouldn't eat, that you would forget...Miss...But you look no worse for wear, really. You look...you look good."

"Truth told, I rather enjoyed myself. Took our Wes to the dog track. He's a real knack for picking a winner..."

"Bloody hell, Harry..." Her look of shock, her mouth dropping open, and he sat there, enjoying his ability to provoke her.

"What? Adam was there, rubbish at it, but there, just the same..." All said while adopting a look of innocence, the cornerstone of any child caught red handed in the proverbial cookie jar, his heightened eyebrows in return failing to disguise his amusement, though he hadn't really tried.

"Well, I'll leave you to it then..." Shaking her head, her shocked expression morphing into a resigned grin, maternal, forgiving.

"I missed you...all..._All_ of you, here..." He'd almost confessed it, allowed it to float between them, seconds passing without a word, before adding the last, a clarification providing a weakened safety net against a fatal fall, emphasis should she prove unyielding, unresponsive as she moved to leave.

"Did you?" Pausing, leaning against the door frame, her hand drawn to her charms, fingering them methodically, a physical distraction for them both, though the nature of her thoughts remained elusive.

"Learned a couple things, news to me, anyway..."

"Am I left to guess?" Her eyes direct, probing, hinting amused interest at the creased corners, flashing as she looked down, toed an imaginary spot before her, arms crossed around her waist.

"Let's see...I'm grateful I haven't the stomach for daytime television, tuna and crisps do not a well rounded diet make, Scarlett prefers her afternoons of solitude, seems my momentary retirement impeded her natural routine. Mmmmm...Adam is a cat man," her eyebrows raising in response, head tilting just so.

"I thought you might appreciate that..." Winking, twirling his pen between his fingers, a distraction like her charms, certainly, buying time to decide on exactly how far he should go, how much to confess, just how long could he delay her.

"Ahhh, my deciphering skills, while a tad bit rusty, served me well fettering a clever message hidden throughout an autobiography about an...American. Interesting choice, there," narrowing his eyes, unable to resist looking her up and down as she pursed her mouth, wrinkled her nose, and did a fair impression of him by narrowing her eyes in return.

"Oh, and there was, well...I've rather developed a fancy for...late night public transit." And if delayed long enough, would she remain, with him, contentedly reading a novel as he sorted the detritus of his desk, his opportunity to gaze at her unobstructed, there for the asking and taking, perhaps an offer to drive her to hers, an invitation inside, a bottle of...

"Any particular kind?" She had chosen to play along, and to his keen eye for such things, she was doing her best to control her breathing, her chin quivering, almost imperceptibly, her hands shaking as they began to fidget with the hem of her shirt.

"I'll confess I haven't much experience, but thinly populated busses have captured my interest...Very attracted to them, truth told." He had allowed his voice to drop, delivering the words softly, infusing them with deliberate innuendo, decorated with seductively honeyed pitch.

"Speaking of which, I'm about to miss mine..." Visibly frightened, he'd moved too quickly, miscalculated her ability and skill at play, at innuendo, his experience of such far superior, and he retreated quickly, frustrated at her inability to continue, celebrating her lack of guile, his cruel heart and nature angry at having been so resoundingly denied.

"I'm entertaining an irrational thought of dismissing my driver altogether..." _What? Bloody hell, for God's sake just stop, have the grace to allow her to leave you selfish, preening, arse._

"Drivers have their uses, one shouldn't underestimate the convenience..." Moving quickly now, her words half mumbled, her comportment wooden, abrupt, resplendent with the desire to vacate, escape, to anyone observing her, incapable of hiding her innate honesty, this fledgling spy not yet entirely corrupted.

"No, quite true. And with mine being so discreet, the father of two..."

"Are you trying to cause me to miss the last bus..." Stamping one foot, her tone elevated, accusatory and anxious, as though without his leave she was not free to go, and he watching, coaxing, finding her adorable, his desire for her to remain, indeed miss her last venue of escape, enhanced with every uncomfortable shuffle, every frustrated sigh forced haphazardly from her mouth.

"...And available to provide you a lift just as easily should you find yourself otherwise engaged, even...pleasantly distracted?" _Please, Ruth, just breathe, just breathe with me, in this moment, _and he wondered if he shouldn't risk approaching her then, touching her as he had after Danny, in the pub, drawing her back.She had released her bags, the sound they made as they hit the floor an unnecessary, audible exclamation point signifying her state of anxiousness, and he remained seated, reading her tells, knowing it was not the time for physical connection though his baser nature all but blinded him with its caustic din demanding the contrary.

"Yes...You..._This_ is a pleasant distraction, Harry," blowing her bangs from her eyes, "But I'm left to run, now, or I really will miss it..."

"You'll not stay?" His own olive branch of a sort, bearing the message _Breathe, Ruth, breathe with me._

"No" Shifting purposefully from foot to foot, the precursor to flight, a frightened, threatened animal before him, his Ruth.

"You're certain?" Honeyed tone, soft, caressing, willing to accept any outcome if only to smooth the furrows forming on her forehead, his desire to place his hand against them, as she had done to him, difficult to resist, a simple kindness offered, yet certain to be misinterpreted in her current state. Or not, his motives having been corrupted regarding Ruth a desperate fact he'd no ability, or will, to alter.

"No" Biting her bottom lip, exquisite his yearning to hold her, suck that lip into his mouth, love her until her anxieties and worries melted into the ether, she limp, draped and available, in his arms.

"I see. Bit of a mixed message there, Ruth." _Tell me what you want, you've only to tell me, Ruth. I've been waiting, just as you have, to divine the direction._

"I...I missed you. I did...do. I'd no idea...how...no idea at all, it was...Umm, what I said...on the, the bus, about us? I wasn't thinking clearly, Harry, you must...You were so close, and I couldn't think clearly so I just...just blurted out, without thinking the position it would put you in, the consequences. It's just...just you...you affect...and it was all so very secret and thrilling, really, and I got wrapped up, is all, lost the thread, allowed my personal...it won't happen again, I promise, really, and, oh bugger, I'm going to have to sprint to make it..."

She was going to leave, he had read it without difficulty in her face, as she stuttered across words, answering his silent question as if having read his mind, pinpointing the exact statement which would befuddle him, allowing her the few precious seconds needed to save herself, nothing to be done or said, he'd leapt too far, begged too much.

"Ruth..." he had begun, moving to stand, all for nought, as he had known it would be.

She was gone, a streaking bundle of cloth and oversized bags, through the pods, using the stairs, there and gone, frightened animal to proper little spy in a split second.

"I missed you, too." Whispered to no one but those observing from the void, celebrating his success as their own, understanding her admission both on the bus and that most recently spoken in the threshold of his office, roiling as the crest of the wave they all rode gained strength and height, the power to crush and destroy as easily as afford smooth conveyance to safe shores present in equal measure, its own equidistant choice, enfold and protect, crumble and decimate, the decision, a direction yet to be fathomed.

He wasn't imagining it, he knew, coloring beyond the lines, embellishing on memory, moments of words spoken, revelations of soul and heart, not, as he had come to believe, _hell_, needed to believe, the fanciful daydreams of an old and weary man, lonely having sold his soul some years ago, his right to peace of mind forfeit in the trade. Irretrievably altered, now, their mutual attraction and need for the other present, if not confessed entirely, no less intense and cumbersome for lack of verbal affirmation, their physical connections, while chaste, foretelling an intensity beyond previously imagined, past experience detailing nothing so much as folly, laughingly hollow, devoid of substance underestimated and infantile in the face of it. It was a bloodletting of sorts, while curiously healing, dangerous if taken too far, torturous with longing if withdrawn too soon, equidistant, each drop suspended, rounding, stretching its limits before releasing, as with human connections, invisible tethers stretching their limits, springing back to rejoin, consummating the union, crashing together, each end rejoined as one.

_I see you, Harry._

_It won't happen again, I promise._

But it will, Ruth, again, and again, and still again, eroding everything presuming to stand in its way, and he welcomed it, the suffocating crush of it, the seductive torture, writhing in its grasp, climactic and devastating in one.

Oh, yes, Ruth, it will happen again, it will have its way.

We cannot be undone, You and me.

_Love, love, careless love, _and he, sat there, silent and foolish in his certainty, denying his past, the lesson of one misstep lost to him in the present, the consequences having inexplicably faded from recent memory, riding the crest, content and unknowingly unprepared.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

"I do hope you've managed to come up with something relevant though, given the number of times he's managed to evade you in the last week, you'll understand if I still have my doubts..." Tapping the pen impatiently, irritated at the interruption.

"There's an additional player, possibly...Met her on a bus, out of listening range, but we believe that is where the intelligence exchange occurred. He disembarked, she continued on. House registered to an R. Evershed." Just a hint of excitement, guarded for having been burned by words in the past, failures unacceptable.

"She's not a new player, far from it. Works for him, senior analyst, counter terrorism. Not unusual she would conduct the exchange, really. Its what I would have done, desk spook, innocuous, least likely to draw attention, or to be followed, monitored..." Bored, these details easily available, nothing new, surprising, useful.

"Hummm. Right. Okay." Hesitant, averse to punishment, understanding it coiled to strike, nevertheless.

"Is that the extent?"

"Yes. Well, no. There is...something. ..."

"Which is it, Yes or no?" _Christ, out with it would you please._

"He watched the bus, is all. Until it was out of sight. Right there in the open, knowing he was being tailed. It was careless of him, made me curious, so I maneuvered closer, thinking maybe I missed something, and, well, it were his face, it twigged something."

"Go on." _Now, this is something_.

"The look, it reminded me of how my dad used to look at me mam before she passed. Devoted, if I had to choose, but with something...a bit of wonder...Yeah, I'd guess wonderment, like he just couldn't believe his luck, right? And devoted, every spare moment he spent with me mam. Just couldn't get enough, I guess. Devastated when she passed. Never fully recovered, truth told. Not to this very day, just a shell. Its been nigh on about four years now."

"Interesting." _Very. So, not a wholly useless exercise after all then._

"Yeah, but, like you said, if she works for him, then...its probably nothing. Maybe he wasn't even watching the bus, yeah? He's tricky, Pearce is. Enjoyed running us around. He even-"

"Is that all? Good. And, ahh, let's leave further musings on your parents to the romantic novelists, shall we? Not a word of any of this, do you understand? Best also not to alert anyone to your penchant for intuitions, no? A bit too feminine..."

"Yes. Understood. Thank you." Scurrying, as would a rat, back into the corners, thankful to have been granted leave, eager to escape scrutiny of one so unapologetically unnerving.

_Oh my, Harry, to be so uncharacteristically careless._

_I had hoped this more a challenge._

_So be it._

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**A/N: Quite a bit happening in this chapter, and while I'm not entirely happy with it, I'm am content to lay blame at having been on vacation as the root cause for not publishing something with, IMHO, a more satisfactory flow to my own ears. Regardless, I hope that you enjoy, reviews, as always, are embraced and treasured.**


	8. Chapter 8

"Now there is a line

In Genesis 9

After the flood

Kill men who shed the blood

Sharp is your needle

Revenge is evil

Wrong or right

Blind as your justice

Cold as a Judas kiss

Dark as the night

Dead petals falling on the bed

White crosses hanging overhead

Deep is the final breath

Long as a man's death"

*Alex Parker, Another Bleeding Heart*

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The room, dimly lit, dark paneling lining one side, the rich, jewel tone color of the opposite wall reflecting off the glossy surface of the expansive oak conference table, gave the observer every impression of having been stolen from some poorly secured soundstage, a set designer's interpretation of espionage, where spies congregate, stereotypically ominous, lacking only scantily clad, voluptuous women with curiously suggestive names, and the gratuitous roulette table. The scent of spent cigar and cigarette smoke invaded every available porous surface, infused the books standing, alphabetical and idle on their massive shelves, clung to the heavy drapes that muffled the sounds of life surging beyond the ornate floor to ceiling windows, the barges and tourist ferries on the Thames beyond, ordinary lives being lived, blissful and unaware, as those seated within the needlessly ostentatious room determined their future, the future of generations to come.

It was, despite the arguably prosaic decor, the accepted nerve center to those present, each taking their assigned place, assuming their seat of power, the puppet masters, pulling invisible strings, those that unaccountably _make things happen_, the sun and moon their marbles to trade between them. Drinks having been distributed, ashtrays at the ready, the solitary footman entrusted to such duties quietly excused himself, customary duties completed, to the outer foyer, carefully unwrapping the sandwich his wife had prepared for him, scolding him for the late hours he kept, _I just miss you so_, breathy in his ear, plasticized smile coating her features. He wondered if she knew he was aware of her trysts with their neighbor, ruminating, as he waited, on various appropriate punishments for cuckolding him, some emerging blunt and straightforward, while others elaborate and fanciful, bordering on hedonistic, each image unfolding, providing sustenance of a gratifyingly nefarious sort.

He was concentrating on the exact dosage proportionate to a gradual poisoning, that nature of reoccurring illness which spoke to a genetic weakness in physiology rather than murder, when a late arrival interrupted his meditations, a curt _good evening, _whispered in passing, followed by the almost inaudible _click_ as the heavy door closed behind. Momentarily distracted, sandwich cradled in his stomach like a brick, _damned woman_, the footman began the game he'd created on evenings such as this, initiated some time ago to wile the hours, entertaining himself as he sat in solitude and silence. He called it _Identify, _and it consisted of systematically reconstructing every detail associated with each individual within the luxurious chamber just beyond, and over time, he has become quite good at closing his eyes, like a child playing at dressing dolls, drawing from brief, stilted interactions, an perfect replica of each attendee in his mind's eye. He shivers then, the tickle sweeping up his spine, the chill spreading across his back, pooling just above his buttocks, his instinctual reaction to fearful circumstances, and while _Identify_ is played entirely in his head, the fear of being found out, discovered mentally documenting the existence of ghosts, bogeymen, their eyes penetrating and squeezing his thoughts into the open remained an unpleasant, though realistic, image long after completed for the evening. He knows there is precious little certainty in life beyond death and taxes, _bless_, he has, nevertheless, accepted that there are two presently in residence whom he will never, with any accuracy, be able to recreate, each appearing briefly, and then gone, leaving him with the impression each had literally evaporated into thin air.

He didn't laud himself an intellectual, but he knew, like he knew day follows night, these were unscrupulous people, duplicitous, wearing disingenuous smiles as they destroy you, the kind that leave lesser men broken, left to incongruously wonder, even as they arrogantly brandish the bloodied knife, nodding silently as they smile into your eyes, _did you do this to me, or did I do this to myself_? These people would never find themselves cuckolded, entertaining fantasies of revenge because imagining is the worst they could do. No, these people, less than ten feet away behind a closed, soundproofed door, could do all his imagination could design, each given opportunity to delve deep into the darkened heart that beats within, exempted from the rules for having designed them to begin with. They are the ones others whisper about in hushed tones, fearing they will be overheard, nervous at being called to account, those shadows lurking under your bed who know you better than you know yourself, and manipulate it to their collective advantage. Worse still, the kind for which there will never be punishment, but rewards whose breadth and magnitude cause his eyes to blur, his head to throb, with the imagining.

More to the immediate point, they could make him disappear, erase any trace of his meager existence, rub him out like an offensive stain on an innocuous rug, his purpose fulfilled, rendered dispensable. A troubling thought, but not so disruptive that he declines the opportunity for extra income, an admittedly obscene amount, but he'd grown rather fond of the obscene facets life provides those willing in recent months. Best be prepared, he rationalizes, in the event he needs to leave suddenly, evasion being an expensive proposition, identities requiring payment in untraceable cash. He won't make the same mistakes he'd made with his first wife, an act, poorly planned, which first brought him into contact with them, the collective, as he'd come to refer to them. He'd happily continue, mistakenly taken for a simpleton, stockpiling the necessary funds, standing sentry in solitude, outside, while musing on elaborate solutions to ridding himself of another scheming wife, defining the characteristics which would be required in the next.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

The meeting having previously been called to order, the late addition silently crossed the room, a walking, indistinct shadow, sliding smoothly into the assigned leather club chair, flipping open the report provided for review, quickly assessing the topic under discussion, face a mask of calm indifference, practiced in giving nothing of internal calculations away, years in the making, the single concession made for being tardy, a stunted, barely there nod in the direction of the darkened corner. Or, more accurately, towards the shoes illuminated against the rich royal blue carpet on which they rested, shined to a blinding luster, the wearer hidden in the depths of gloom, the right foot tapping, once, recognition, in return.

"He's impenetrable professionally!" Vaulting theatrically from the chair, barely acknowledging the late arrival before throwing the report across the table, pacing furiously as the papers within, suddenly unsheathed, sifted through the air, coming to rest lazily, haphazardly about the floor, forgotten.

"Word is he's got McTaggart's manuscript squirreled away somewhere, for Christ's sake," another presence, turning from the window, the soft _whoosh_ as the heavy velvet curtains fell back into place, punching the air with an extended finger, an angry child intent on popping a balloon belonging to another. "Could be used against more than a few of us...fucking Clive McTaggart...bloody thorns our sides, both of them!"

"Quite an accomplishment, given one is dead." Calm, smooth voice, deliberately pandering as to an intellectual inferior, speaking slowly, enunciating each word, tongue massaging each consonant, enjoying the growing frustration reflected back, contemplative as the insult strikes, the evaluation communicated, _Oh, do shut up_, _the adults are speaking._

_"_That's one short of necessary, as far as I'm concerned." Reclaiming the dramatically vacated leather chair, petulant as an excessively pampered brat, the retort sniffed out, chin jutting, spoiling for an equally debilitating effect, sullen as the result proved impotent, mouth forming into an ugly sneer. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"Not relevant." A wave of the hand, dismissive in countenance, passively observing as another in their ranks crumbled from the strain, predictable though it may have been. The schemes they designed required patience, perseverance, a cast iron constitution to prove successful. Elaborate displays of histrionics had no place within these walls, and thus regarded as a crass indulgence of an inappropriate and weak juvenile nature.

"Perhaps what is needed is a drink?" The soft lighting illuminating small portions of the face, the slight tic under the left eye was easily observed. So too, the almost undetectable tremor of hand, the repeated fondling of mouth, unconscious, methodical. _Oh, yes, need for a drink rather scratches the surface._

_"__Wouldn't you agree?" _Querulous_, _recklessly fractious with redundant insistence_, _each word a verbal bullet, designed to constrain and anchor, the intended damage a voluntary verbal enslavement if answered, infinite, rather than an absolute, fatal end, finite. _While that is a lovely apple, I'll not bite, thank you. This garden isn't as secure as I would encourage you to believe._

"As I said, _Not. Relevant_." Extending the tumbler, the generous portion of contents intended as a deterrent to further discussion in this vein, the environment surrounding replete with technological eyes and ears, though known as fact only to a few present, voluntary enslavement successfully, if only momentarily, avoided.

"We're not talking about some innocuous chess piece here." A new voice, emanating from the corner, equally calm and measured, rationality and precision a welcome contribution, equilibrium restored, temporarily.

"This is Pearce, not some infant fresh from the farm." Legs uncrossed, leaning forward into the dim light, features appearing briefly, mouth a grim line. "Very few things have the power to unnerve me in this life, and I'm certain I'm not alone in stating the current head of Five is one of those few." Pausing to look at each in turn, years of experience well known to all present, effectively impeding any urge to disagree, let alone argue or question position.

"His arsenal is impressive, of that you should have little doubt. He'll use it, ruthlessly, without a second thought." Sighing, leaning back, face reclaimed by the shadows, pale fingers brushing at imaginary lint found on the surface of an impeccably clad knee, the disagreement both unnecessary and resolved in one, the simmering impatience bred of cultivating the long game, the goal months, even years in the distance, communicated to all effortlessly, bored with the repetitive chore of having to remind. "Best we stick with bringing him on side. Safer..._for everyone_." Eyes hidden, yet still direct, unflinching, as though examining the best way to pull the wings from a moth while ensuring the uninterrupted extension of torture, entertainment of a particularly corrupted intellectual sort.

"There is another...opportunity...that has rather unexpectedly presented itself." Eyes scanning the room, evaluating measure of interest, finding it palpable, vulnerable to exploitation. A favorite exercise, this. Folding one's personal agenda within the guise of another previously established, the delicate art of convincing others your agenda is their creation, and you merely bowing before their greater minds at work, obligingly affable, suitably awed, silently watching as your intended ends take shape and form, the cell becoming the tumor as you spoon feed every morsel into the readied and open mouths gaping before you. _ I was born for this._

"Impenetrable, both professionally and personally, are we agreed?" Waiting as those present assented, a synchronistic nodding of agreement, relishing their collective attention, compelled to silence at this new development, the first of many morsels.

"More to the point, a direct move against him, say, for example, involving his children, or his agents, we've established, would be far too obvious, a futile effort at best. Even the considerable amount of time spent developing such scenarios was a wasted effort." The smile slowly forming, indulgent, hiding the internal distain, the chronic distaste for the act of wasting time, criminal, offensive on a personal level, deeply resented and tabulated, as was habit, the catalogues, legion.

The backhanded insult having penetrated the soft, malleable vanity, layer upon layer of combined ego on display in varying degrees of strength throughout the room, volatile, easily affronted, tedious in weakness, the sense of personal satisfaction beginning to wane as the ease of insult, the opportunity to poke at simpletons, increased in frequency, the blood beginning to thin between sharp teeth, less vibrant and potent, yet habitually irresistible. _Who will it be this time?_

"Much as I enjoy a history lesson, yours is a well travelled path I find little to no inter-"

_Ah, disappointingly predictable as always._ "A back door has presented itself, completely unexpected, unforeseeable after all this time, but which will, by that exact nature, prove fortuitous to our ends." Interrupting, teeth clenching against the overt sarcasm meant to goad, mouth not so much forming the words as spitting, each slicing through the air in response, refusing the bait.

"Elaborate, please. Starting with how you came by this..._back door._..of yours." Skeptical, cool, feminine tone, a purr, not surprising, though annoying in its latent rote predictability, another slight catalogued, this nest of vipers, merciless within and without, callously re-imagining alliances, relentlessly brutal in chasing their varied goals, single minded in their shared self absorption, justifications, desire to keep their own hands spotless.

"As it happens, it was in front of us the entire time." Smiling as the shock made itself known on the faces present, preemptively cherishing the inevitable gratitude for divining a solution otherwise given up for lost, a challenge unvanquished, the morsels bestowed meticulously, each more beguiling than the last. "We simply failed to...consider the...possibility, is all. Ironic, now, really." Holding the tumbler up to the light, observing the crystal colors spark and shine, the amber liquid change hue and depth as it swirled within, watching the legs make their way slowly down the inside of the glass with hooded eyes. "That he would hand us the very thing needed to suit our purpose, provide the means for his own undoing. Unusually careless, even."

"Dangerous assumption, there. Pearce is not a careless man, never has been. Thoughtless, singleminded, ruthless, callous, brutal even, at times...many times. But _careless_? I can count the number on one hand, minus a couple of fingers." Holding up three fingers in superfluous illustration, and the urge to inform that a thumb is not a finger becomes very nearly impossible to resist.

"You understand he could just as easily be running you about. He's imminently capable. You know that as well as I, well..._we_, do." The purr taking on a slightly hardened edge, hand extended, palm up, sweeping through the air, the pantomimed equivalent of _and, I speak for everyone here. _

_Certainly, lets get everyone's opinion, shall we? All the time in the fucking world._

Heads nodding affirmatively, in unison, sheep all, almost laughable as observed, their esteem for Harry Pearce matched only in their collective suspicion for the reliability of this newfound intelligence, its sudden revelation a serendipitous event deserving of wide berth, forensic examination, their confidence in Harry's innate skill verging an embarrassingly awestruck in nature.

"You understand our...hesitation, surely. Or, shall I expand? Amanda Roe, Robert Morgan, Dicky, Khurvin, all designed to succeed, involving agents of your choosing, all spectacularly costly failures." The seductive purr now all but gone, replaced by thinly veiled contempt, mouth curving in an ugly sneer.

"Results were not as expected, fair enough, though the Khurvin-"

"_Results were not as expected? Christ, _we're not talking about a child's disappointing science project. This undertaking, this cultivation, _all of it,_ is a new world order, and I, frankly, am no longer confident you can either deliver on, or handle, your required contribution. I question whether you _have the balls_." Each word emphasized, the attack on full display, finger tapping the table with each poison dart.

"Interesting. Care to test that theory?" Leaning forward, cold eyes gleaming with prospective challenge, welcoming it with serpentine appetite, an unapologetic willingness to consume and swallow whole.

"I'm sorry, are we throwing our cocks on the table now? If so, I suspect you'd fail in that, as well." Purr reasserted, the tone cloying, disingenuous, unnerving to the ear.

"Making you a hermaphrodite. How very provocative-" Eyebrow raised, smirking in return.

"And you a eunuch." Eyes dead center, unblinking, the master stroke delivered, awaiting response.

"Fuck you." _Fuck you, and your moth-eaten..._

"Well, now that _is_ a bit out of your wheelhouse, isn't it?" Eyes wide with feigned innocence, voice saccharine sweet.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you're not the only one in the room capable of covert surveillance. What exactly draws you to them, their rugby uniforms or their prepubescence?"

_I'm going to enjoy watching you twist, listening as you beg me to save you._

"Enough." Issued calmly from the corner, a wearisome participant, resigned, yet fundamentally intolerant of these habitual outbursts, the oneupmanship of clashing individual temperaments. Like rats in a cage, unavoidable they would begin to view each other as a meal, their frequent tendency to nip and bite at any opposition, tedious, all the succulence and appeal of rotted, festering meat spoiling in the sunshine.

"If I might be allowed a bit of time, I could arrange for the placement of surveillance-" adopting a genial tone, despite the verbal barrage, despite the expected distrust, placing the morsel before them, contentedly awaiting the first to reach forward, claiming first taste.

"Christ, the man could sniff _that_ out in the midst of a bloody coma..._For fuck's sake_, _have you not been listening?" _Pacing resumed, fraying at the edges, pouring another measure, the routine of self medication, the exasperation felt by all for having to endure an additional outburst, witness yet another conspicuous display of in-fortitude and weakness, pronounced, discernible, eyes glaring, collectively, at the offender.

"AS WE ARE MOST PAINFULLY AWARE, YOU MEWLING INFANT!" Thundering, all efforts to remain serene and patient exhausted, emerging from the solitude of darkness, the corner emanating malice, white knuckled against the strain, an uncomfortably shifting audience, eyes now round with shock, surprise, distaste mixed with apprehension, understandable given the myriad of reputations assembled, the extended moments of silence suitably awkward as the seconds passed, ruffled feathers smoothed, masks reapplied with exacting precision.

"Please, do sit down, and shut up." Throats clearing intermittently within the room, the genial tone of moments ago reestablished, calm indifference projected from a source deep within, controlled, again, the menacing visage so familiar firmly back in place. "We all have our skeletons. Move on."

"The..._placement of surveillance_, which...as was so eloquently pointed out...would be waisted on him, I suspect will prove quite...bountiful placed elsewhere." Chin resting on the tips of templed fingers, eyes concentrating on the middle space, mind appearing elsewhere, likely constructing elaborate wish lists of technological gadgetry suited to the task, the names of persons uniquely qualified, skills precisely attuned effortlessly forming.

"That place being? And I am rather tiring of this bit of cat and mouse..."

"A house. More specifically, a woman's house." _Perhaps you'll find that cat and mouse more to your liking, preening twat._

"Ahhh. Well...that...that is...interesting."

"Do we have a name?" Delivered in a whisper from the corner, emerging from the shadows, attention keen, taking the stage, unseen.

"Evershed." Eyes narrowed in return, peering towards the darkness breathing in the corner, the audience momentarily forgotten.

"Wait, what? Did you...The analyst? You're certain?" Looking excitedly around, every bit the salivating, riled dog, rabid for salacious details, crass and unimaginably tedious to the rest. "You're certain...no doubts, he's fucking her? Christ's tears, she's...what, bloody twenty, twenty-five? And he's fucking her? You've indisputable proof?"

"_Precisely_ what surveillance was designed for. _I should have thought that obvious_." The gradual smile deceptively obliging, the last addition carried past subtlety curved lips, delivered in a dismissive tone, deliberately contemptuous, as close to a pat on the head of an overexcited family pet as would be wise to risk presently. The eyes, nevertheless, sharpened as they continued to peer into the darkened corner, confident the sting of insult had found its target elsewhere, difficult to miss given the elaborate and preening display of vanity and ego the group had been forced, by necessity, to endure, _for the greater good_, throughout these measured and lengthy gatherings.

"You've agents appropriate to the task in place then?" The conversation thus devolved, as was increasingly customary, to include only the two, the Alpha seated apart, enshrouded in darkness, and that counterpart, by necessity a foil, in design the Omega, eyes sharp, meditative, calmly placing the morsels of intelligence down for the others, subordinates, to silently follow, ingest, interjecting barbs, cutting insults at will, the two together, a tenuous alliance, each believing themselves superior to the whole, silently raging within the pack, maintaining a delicate, shared dominance.

"Soon, yes. A woman for the placement, I think. Familiar with the analyst, so her presence shouldn't draw any unwanted scrutiny. Very skilled, accomplished...presently semiretired, disillusioned, or so I've heard. Should be easily manipulated to side. I'll handle the arrangements, regardless." Eyebrow raised triumphantly, dipping a finger into the contents, circling the rim, drawing from the cut crystal tumbler a delicately wavering sound, musical, floating above the silence, yet inexplicably, vaguely obscene, the subtle imagery of innocence corrupted.

"She'll come to find it...favorable...to see things my way." A deft puppet master relishing the euphoria of power, the adrenaline of ambition surpassing all other forms, rather sexual in nature, the satisfaction of another's submission, the draw of divining pain, the manipulative power of secrets known.

_Disillusioned_, a paltry excuse for description, dissolving from within, the volatile extraction of her soul, slowly, fiber by ephemeral fiber until extinct, more accurate, without doubt, purposefully withheld from verbal exchange, extraneous details singularly useful in the knowing, rather than the public divulging. The cornerstone intrinsic to amassing power, the refinement of knowledge, the _knowing_, the nine lives of a cat protected within, awaiting use, providing and withholding in turn, calculated, cold-blooded, the potency of restraint. Those who fancied their chances at usurping position would be well advised to reconsider. That, or update their current will and testament.

"Make the arrangements. Let's call it an end, for the moment." The disembodied voice speaking from the distance, the gathering thus adjourned, each participant took their leave, whispered words, hushed in deference to the two who remained seated, their collective tongues caressing these new developments as they exited, the seduction of gossip, a lurid opiate impervious to caution, the act of fucking a subordinate proving too delicious not to sink one's teeth into, unavoidably effective bait, as was expected by them both, playing a chess game unknown to the others.

Unfolding from the corner, extinguishing the surveillance present in the room via a control switch hidden within the bookcase in passing, moving towards a vacated club chair, the dim light illuminating a vibrantly colored shirt, tailored lines accentuated, custom made, the moneyed accouterments befitting an Alpha, taking the crystal tumbler as it is offered, the chair's position balancing, exactly, it's opposite across the expanse of darkened oak, facing a likewise festooned and coutured Omega, sipping intermittently, eyes watchful above the rim,

"Am I correct in assuming the proposed surveillance has been initiated?"

"A week ago. She installed both audio and video, as we agreed. I was briefly concerned...Evershed appeared to sense something amiss, though we couldn't identify why. Nothing to concern ourselves with, her routine remains predictable. Nothing to indicate she's aware, in any case."

"You're still nursing that wound." A statement of vapid fact, exhaled as undisguised exasperation.

"Not at all. She tried her hand and, surprisingly, was successful in circumventing-"

"_You_. She circumvented you, and by doing so, allowed Pearce enough time to deal with the Quinn situation. He should have been removed _then_. I fear you have gravely underestimated them."

"_Underestimated them_? You would prefer I genuflect in accordance with the sycophants that just left this room? It is precisely because I don't underestimate them, _him_ more specifically, that I'm even sitting here."

"Your point being?"

"That it takes a game player to beat a game player. We're cut from the same cloth, he and I. Don't make the mistake of discounting our...history. History can be wonderfully informative. With Evershed in play, the game significantly tilts in our favor. I can predict with complete accuracy what his play will be. His history tells the tale."

"How so?"

"That's need to know territory. All _you_ need to know is lovers or not, he'll want to protect the analyst."

"Pulled her right out from under you, didn't he?" Chuckling, recognizing that for someone possessing this manner of temperament, the wound of having been outsmarted festers, an offense which required a correlating consequence.

"She was slated for elsewhere but, to be clear, _I declined_. No one made off with her under my nose." _Cagey bastard bagged her before the interview was even completed. I know because I watched the video. Not that I would admit as much aloud._

"_Of course_. And direct contact will occur..."

"Tomorrow. Details of the committee were provided, as instructed, some time ago. The suicide, when viewed from that perspective, was strategically useful. Rubbish, but useful."

"So, extrapolating, Wells is rather...off, as has been intimated?"

"Without question. Fortuitous, really, the association with Haigh, and by extension, Evershed...you have seen the psych assessments I provided?"

Nodding, silently plotting, appearance that of a deceptively still and tranquil pond.

"It's all there, albeit only to the trained eye. The operation she was most recently involved in was completed satisfactorily. If all goes as planned, the removal of our primary obstacle should occur within, if I had to pinpoint, twenty, maybe thirty hours."

"Shame."

"I'm sorry?"

"She was an excellent agent. If it weren't for the Haigh distraction-"

"Fixation..."

"Quite." Pausing, progression measured, prudent. "She understands...She's prepared to die?"

"It appears so. You've read the assessments...Psychobabble about having turned a corner on some indeterminate clinical scale." Fingers pinching the nose at the bridge, irritation for psychological weaknesses in others on display despite their frequently manipulated usefulness. "Her skills remain useful, however. Mentally I'm confident she can perform, but emotionally...a walking powder keg, and rather fortunately for us as such, one less loose end, it would seem." Pulling a folder secreted from a compartment hidden within the underside of the table, sliding it across its smooth surface, a simple flick of a finger, the distance between travelled effortlessly.

"Anything of note from the house?" Drawing the additional report closer, eager to examine the details within, a mask of nonchalance adopted to hide behind, not a ripple of disruption in the offing.

"Nothing. If he's involved with her, sexually speaking, the physical...expression is occurring elsewhere. Not surprising, we're talking Harry Pearce, here, not your average politician."

"I'd put my money on unconsummated, tentative courting, if I had to guess," leafing casually through the additional report. "It would be preferable...to our goal. Rather lending a heightened sense of loss...just that much more acute, hard to ignore, hard to maintain rationality. More to the point, easier to manipulate." Brows furrowed, attention drawn to some obscure detail, "She's thirty-four. Where did twenty come from?"

Rolling eyes, the unspoken _who fucking knows _communicated effectively. "An idiot. De rigueur for every group whose agenda is devoted to undermining the accepted status quo. Keeps us honest." Smirking, the half smile an unnervingly ghastly imitation of happiness.

"A particularly appropriate fall guy. Couldn't happen to a more deserving person. Master stroke there." Closing the file, content to examine it further later, anxious to part company, but for the threads, the ever expanding network of threads comprising their web, all needing constant handling, massaging, delicate and tedious busy work, exhausting and exhilarating in one.

"And Shaw? I'm assuming she initiated this surveillance?" Manicured fingers tapping absently on the closed report, attention beginning to wane, well travelled paths of manipulation proving wearisome, tedious with frequency of usage.

"Nursing a bruised ego, I would assume. He's not interested. Ironically, it was his refusal that led to the latest intelligence. She brought it to my attention, if you can believe it. Dropped it right in my lap." Head shaking side to side, eyes closed, incredulity at their unexpected luck clear, the impression misogynistic, the frailty and weaknesses of women. The fact that Pearce has been under periodic surveillance since the Quinn cock-up was left unspoken, falling under the canopy of knowledge is power, secret knowledge is power, plus leverage.

"Started it some time ago. I'll leave you to guess why." Nodding, eyebrows raised, ruminating over the ease with which human beings never fail to undermine themselves, self inflicted wounds more pernicious than that dreamt up by even the most malignant of antagonist.

"Beware a woman scorned..." Fingers stilled, chin down, cold eyes gazing across from underneath thick, darkened lashes.

"Particularly one who's surmised who you do fancy. Christ but she's a vindictive bitch. And ambitious, which works in our favor. Dangle a carrot, and she'll do what she's told. As far as _you_ need to know, she's a necessary, but dispensable, catalyst." Striding purposefully across the room, retrieving an ashtray, lighting the tip of a much longed for cigarette, clicking the lighter's lid open and closed, the corresponding snapping sound designed to irritate the listener, the joys of obvious provocations, juvenile, yet still unsurpassed in the catalogue of personal satisfactions, imbalance the ultimate reward.

"Anything worth highlighting?" Watching with feigned disinterest, the expelled smoke circling above, undulating as it dissipates, only the stench remaining to merge with expensive cloth, an olfactory betrayer which would require elaborate lies of explanation later.

"It's all included, but as for highlights, surprisingly little. Between the two, they spend more time on the grid than outside. Pass card reports indicate either one is first to arrive, last to leave. Nothing obviously untoward, but there was a missing two hours, shortly after Clive's death, where they were both simultaneously unaccounted for. Well, _as far as Shaw knows_. I've included the pictures." Pausing, a direct and invasive stare, knowing instinctively the tells, the twitch of the mouth, strumming fingertips, suggesting the desire to reopen the report, examine the photos, intellectual fencing of a sort. "Physically suggestive, if I had to sum it up." _Gossip, a consistently effective weapon._

"You're rather overtly pleased with yourself." Unnerving, this ability to discern the inner thoughts secreted deeply within others. Useful, effective, even profitable. But alarmingly unnerving.

"Not without reason. He'll be blindsided." Smiling, extinguishing the spent cigarette, marring the pristine beauty of the crystal ashtray, enjoying the subtle imagery, the corresponding interest in the nature of lurid details marring the otherwise pristine reputation of the person seated across the table. _ I can read you just as effectively._

"I find resorting to these, _your,_ methods unseemly. We were supposed to be rid of him with Quinn. Then Khurvin. Would that he would simply see the value and benefits of joining...stubborn, hard headed bastard." Sniffing at the air, wrinkled nose manifesting as distaste, not the first, or likely last, occurrence. "I wonder, why is it I always feel in need of a scalding and rigorous bath after a meeting with you?"

"Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, at a guess."

"Clever."

"Fondness for self flagellation, then? Look into it."

"You wouldn't be so cavalier were you the target. _Blindsided_, as it were."

"I wouldn't be so careless."

"I imagine that's exactly what he thinks."

"_He thinks, I know._ Significant difference."

"We shall see..." Inner alarm bells beginning to sound, a dangerous game, each move forward as likely to be as rewarding as, alternatively, producing the first step towards desolation, their alliance built with all the strength of filigreed, filmy webbing, and like a host spider, drawing the victim in, destroyed by his own hand and volition, one's chosen vice becoming a sudden inescapable downfall, trapped without recourse, awaiting an agonizing end. Overconfidence, vanity, a dangerous, internal betrayer, requiring systematic attention, the vice most likely and commonplace, perpetually addictive. Like power. Like knowledge. A cocktail, inebriating quickly, corroding from within.

"Indeed, we shall." Pausing, sizing up, resentments simmering, the catalogues of insults and innuendo wielded earlier erroneously addressed, stoking the tread upon vanity, suggesting an unacceptable position of inferiority, inadvisable to ignore.

"There is just one more detail of which you should be made aware." Draining the contents of the tumbler, placing it gently on the table, deliberate, methodical, face a mask of quiet contemplation, hiding the menace beneath.

"Change, necessary change, happens because decisions are made, and those decisions are made by people who have the courage to make them. But let's be clear, those decisions only evolve into action because of people who possess the skills and backbone to see the entire picture, the fortitude and mettle to know and do all that is required, the fearlessness to gather and document all the offensive, debauched, unseemly bits of pestilence secreted away to serve the greater end." Eyes hardened, face a visage of stone, cold, unyielding as the tongue prepares to flay.

"So while you sit there in your corner, hiding, understand this, you will never be clean. You dare to sit there, coating yourself in sanctimony and judge me? At best, you're the one who waits to be told by people like me what needs to happen, every sordid detail not fit for Christmas dinner because you haven't the skill or stomach to act. You want to remain clean, you need a fucking bath? Fuck you, and your misguided belief that we can, all of us, initiate this and remain pristine. You, my pious friend, are the worst kind of bloody hypocrite." Rejoicing as the face begins to pale, the skin grows tight around the eyes, the jaw clenches with words not spoken, the truth an ugly mirror to behold.

"And it may well sicken you, cause you to rail in the face of God, that there are people like me. Worse still, that you, and the silver spoon bed wetters just like you, the whole fucking lot of you, need people like me. We compensate for your collective and unfathomable levels of weakness, we balance, so don't start believing your own lies, the ones that help you sleep at night, washing your conscience clean with a, what was it, scalding and rigorous scrubbing? Have no illusions, you are, at the end of the day, nothing more than a sanctimonious, unctuous dilettante playing at world domination, and just a fucking filthy as me." Head tilted to the side, relaxing back into the chair, the single indication of awaiting a response the hand which reached to adjust a shirt cuff, smoothing first one, then the other, once done, folding together to rest on top of the table, still.

"How very kind of you to take the time. Now, shall we bring an end?" Uncomfortable with the menacing stare, the consistently serene countenance, the proven ability to divine internal calculations unspoken, the slight shiver along the spine alluding to having been involuntarily revealed, cold, a sliver of precognition that stings as it evolves, the stench of smoke nauseating, face revealing nothing of the disruptions within, voice smooth as honey, soft and caressing.

Rising in unison, each movement a reciprocal counterpart, they silently extend their exit, extinguishing the dim lighting, reactivating the hidden surveillance, puppeteers both, calling an end, an understood and momentary stalemate, each recognizing the considerable adversary in the other, their faces exuding confidence, mastery, loyalty, the lie inherent to all three roiling under the adopted, carefully constructed facades, shoes echoing the halls until silence vanquished the distance sound.

And as the silent footman returned home to receive the counterfeit arms of his adulterous wife, Ruth Evershed returned home to encounter a different manner of counterfeit woman, wearing the face of a sometime acquaintance, trailing the memory of Peter Haigh behind her, secreting an explosive document, unaware that they were, all of them, pawns moved about on a chessboard, an agenda unseen gaining strength, fueled by those who lauded themselves gods.

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**A/N: So, I do not advise writing a chapter where you can't identify anyone by gender or name. Surprisingly difficult, which accounts for the time delay for this one. Also, I'm trying to figure out where the idea that Harry was a master with the opposite sex came from. Is it cannon, or just our elaborate imaginations at work? Any suggestions would be welcomed, I just don't remember it being covered in great detail during the series (American, Netflix versions). Took some liberties with the basics of ****Diana****, and this chapter is much more dialogue driven, with very little H&R, so forgive me, but I needed to establish some elements. Hope you enjoy, thanks for taking the time to read, and for reviewing, if you've the time. Also, if you've a mind, the songs that are quoted are lyrics which help me to define the mood in my head relative to each chapter. I'm curious, has anyone listened to them? No pressure.**


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